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v 


















THE ROSE WITH A THORN 





a ( 


It is very good of you to let me pay such a late call.’ ” 


[Page 123.] 


THE ROSE 
WITH A THORN 


BY 


PRISCILLA CRAVEN 

AUTHOR OF “THE PRIDE OF THE GRAFTONS ” 



J)V\A 





NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
1911 





Copyright, 1911, by 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 


Published May, 1911 




V 


©Cl. A 289 155 


CONTENTS 


PART ONE 
THE BUD 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — A Very Small Heiress 3 

II. — A Fortune — Conditionally . . . .10 

III. — “Reverse the Engines" .... 24 

PART TWO 
THE BLOSSOM 

IV. — Verity in Search of a Husband . . 33 

V. — Hands Off, America! 42 

VI. — “A Late Blooming" 54 

VII. — “Burford’s Reward" 64 

VIII. — “Squaring the Circle" 75 

IX. — An Informal Introduction .... 82 

X. — A Small Dinner-Party 93 

XI. — “No Frenchman Need Apply" . . . 106 

XII. — The Average Man 112 

XIII. — “An Unsavory Brawl" .... 125 

XIV. — Queen Elizabeth’s Room . . . .141 

XV.— “The Primrose Lane" 152 


V 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XVI. — A Romantic Humpty-Dumpty . . .166 

XVII. — ‘ “Tally-Ho!” 175 

XVIII. — The Quick and the Dead .... 188 

XIX. — “A Blow in the Dark” .... 197 

XX.— Not a Maori Chief 215 

XXI.— The Littlest Thing 229 

XXII. — Orange Blossom 244 

XXIII.— “Lady Rees” 264 


PART THREE 

THE THORN 


XXIV.— “Welcome Home” 281 

XXV. — “The Thorn” 288 

XXVI. — More than a Plaything .... 297 
XXVII. — ”1 Ain’t Hoping for Nothing, Never 

No More” 304 

XXVIII.— A Brick Wall 319 

XXIX. — An Old Flame 330 

XXX. — The Devil’s Wife 341 

XXXI. — “Is it Good-by?” 354 

XXXII. — A Commonplace Business .... 363 

XXXIII.— Stood in the Corner 375 

XXXIV.— No Rights! 383 

XXXV. — The End — Alone! 392 

XXXVI.— The School of Love 400 


vi 












PART ONE 
THE BUD 







Q 





CHAPTER I 


A VERY SMALL HEIRESS 

It was a tearful April day. The rain was behaving 
like a spoilt, peevish child, dashing itself every now and 
then against the broad windows, then withdrawing its 
attentions for a while to let a hurried glimpse of blue 
sky be seen through the curtains. It was one of those 
days when the Earth suddenly awakens from her winter 
slumbers, chuckles, yawns, grumbles, stretches her limbs, 
and then like a very young thing begins to flirt with 
everything she meets. 

In the air, in the budding trees, the tops of which 
could be seen from the schoolroom windows, in the 
ground itself, there were signs of young and vigorous 
life, of the almost magical yearly resurrection; but in 
the big house on Fifth Avenue there was the somber 
hush of death. Old Richard Marlowe would never feel 
the stir of the spring, or watch the approach of summer: 
the sleep of eternal winter was upon him. Mary, the 
Irish nurse, sat stitching on one side of the table, and 
her round usually cheery face was subdued to a respect- 
ful solemnity. Opposite her was Verity, Richard Mar- 
lowe’s only granddaughter. She was nibbling her pencil 
reflectively, and looking across at Mary, who was remov- 
ing some colored ribbons from a white frock. 

The rain swished angrily against the windowpane. 
An expression of pain contracted the child’s delicate 
features at the sound. 

“Oh! they’ll all be broken to pieces,” she said, with 
acute regret. “The poor, dear things.” 

3 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

The nurse started; she had been absorbed in her own 
thoughts. 

“What will be broken to pieces?” she inquired. 

“All the flowers in the beautiful wreaths. Oh! it 
makes me feel real bad to think that the rain is beating 
on them and messing them up.” 

“Ah! well, they can’t feel it, dearie. They’re not 
like humans.” 

“Aren’t they?” said Verity, thoughtfully. “ Some- 
times I am sure they must feel. They look at you from 
the plants as you walk by, and they seem to be trying to 
say something. Haven’t you seen a rose look at you? I 
asked mother the other day if flowers felt, and she said 
she never thought about it. . . . But anyway, I’m sure 
they like to live: they can’t want to die. Oh! why do 
you put those ugly black ribbons on my frocks? I just 
hate black.” 

“It’s proper and decent,” returned Mary, decidedly, 
on surer ground. “Aren’t you sorry your grandfather is 
dead?” 

“Yes, if he wanted to go on living. But he was very 
old.” 

“Whisht,” said Mary, indignantly, “he wasn’t very 
old. He was but fifty-five.” Mary was well on in the 
forties herself. 

“That’s very old,” said Verity, with the calm assur- 
ance of her ten long years. “My father was only twenty- 
five when he died. I don’t remember him. Mother 
remembers him.” ... She seemed lost in thought for a 
minute, her eyes, brilliant and strange-colored like the 
hue of China tea, fixed on the scudding white clouds that 
could be seen through the window. The sun had come 
out again with renewed good humor, and shone on the wet 
asphalt of the sidewalk below. Verity could just catch 
a glimpse of it and the wet umbrellas which looked like 
large moving mushrooms. Farther away she could see 
the electric cars rushing up and down Madison Avenue. 
Through the double windows came the sound of a great 

4 


A VERY SMALL HEIRESS 


city’s traffic: New York was humming like an enormous 
bumble-bee gathering its daily stores of honey. 

“Now, Miss Verity, be a good child and get on with 
your lessons.” 

But Verity was not in the humor for lessons; the 
events of the last week had set her brain working. 

“Grandfather seemed so old and tired,” she contin- 
ued, “and if you die when you’re twenty-five, like father, 
I guess you don’t feel so tired. Do you know what grand- 
father said to me the last time I saw him?” 

The nurse shook her head and continued sewing on 
the black ribbons. 

“He said, ‘Verity, I’m too tired to go on living any 
longer. Curse this damned country.’” 

“Miss Verity,” shrieked out Mary, “don’t use such 
wicked words. ’ ’ 

“Grandfather used them. I had to tell you what he 
said. What did he mean, Mary?” 

“I don’t know, dear. But people talk strangely before 
their death sometimes. I had an aunt who kept on talk- 
ing to her son all the time, and he had been dead thirty 
years, and he was but a fortnight old when he died.” 

“Grandfather was English. I’m American. Julia 
Pinch said the other day that I wasn’t a real American, 
and I told her she was a liar. I asked mother about it, 
and she said I was American. I am American,” she 
continued, passionately, “I won’t be English.” 

She stood up and, tossing back her long red-brown hair, 
began to sing loudly, “ ‘My Country! ’tis of Thee.’ ” 

“Hush!” said Mary. “Don’t make a noise to-day.” 

“Why, grandfather can’t hear. He never liked sing- 
ing. Aunt Susie and Uncle George were singing a most 
beautiful duet the other day, and grandfather called it 
cater — cater — something. I don’t know what he meant, 
but I know he didn’t like it. Weren’t there a lot of things 
grandfather didn’t like? I should think he couldn’t have 
been so sorry to die.” 

“He had his dislikes like the rest of us, Miss Verity.” 

5 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Yes, but he was all dislikes. He used to draw down 
the blinds to keep out the beautiful sun, and he didn’t like 
music, and he didn’t care much for flowers or pictures. 
Oh! he couldn’t have enjoyed life much, could he? When 
I grow up and I can do all the things I want, I shall en- 
joy it ever, ever so much. Sometimes I just burst with 
the things I want to do. When you’re grown up, you can 
do everything you like.” 

“You can’t do everything you like in life.” 

“Why not?” 

“Oh! because — because things happen to you.” 

“Then I’ll make them unhappen if I don’t like them.” 

Just then the door opened to admit a tall, good-natured- 
looking man of about forty. 

“Oh, Uncle George!” cried the child, flinging herself 
upon him, “why are you so black?” 

“Black!” he said, stepping hastily up to a hanging 
mirror. “Oh ! you mean my clothes. Yes, I do look a bit 
funereal.” 

“Why do people wear black for mourning?” said Ver- 
ity, sadly. “It’s so ugly.” 

“Convention, my child. . . . There are countries 
where they consider purple as mourning.” 

“Oh! that’s beautiful. Purple is a beautiful color. 
Mother says I may have as many purple dresses as I like 
when I grow up. Uncle, do they wear purple as mourn- 
ing in England?” 

“Oh! no.” He laughed. “What put that idea in 
your head?” 

“Oh! I don’t know. . . . Have you buried grand- 
father?” 

He nodded. “Six feet deep. . . . They’re just hav- 
ing some refreshments, and then they are going to read 
the will. I ran up to see how you were getting on, 
chick.” 

He sat down, and Verity jumped on his knee, and 
curled herself into the hollow of his arm. She and her 
mother’s brother were great friends. 

6 


A VERY SMALL HEIRESS 


“I hope you won’t die, Georgie Porgie. First the cat 
died, and then grandfather died ” 

“Thank you,’’ said George Bradley, “I have no in- 
tention of dying just yet.’’ 

“Do you like being alive?’’ asked Verity, eagerly. 

“Sure. Life’s bully. I haven’t got much grumble 
with it. I tell you I felt mighty glad to-day that I wasn’t 
in that big box. Why! the perfume of the flowers was 
enough to want to live for. ’ ’ 

Verity nodded. “They were lovely, the flowers, 
weren’t they? Why were there so many? Did people 
love grandfather so much?’’ 

“Urn,” said George, with an odd expression, “maybe 
they did, but most people are undemonstrative, especially 
on Wall Street. But your grandfather was a very rich 
man, Verity, my dear.” 

“Was he?” said Verity, indifferently. 

He held her away from his waistcoat, and looked at 
her. She was very small for her age, and her face 
seemed extraordinarily petite, surrounded as it was by a 
mass of hair. It always reminded George Bradley of a 
narcissus, but as the rest of the family always said, 
George had ridiculous ideas. George had never made 
money, and what is more, he did not seem to wish to 
make it, which was most eccentric. 

“Yes,” he said, “you’ll be your grandfather’s heir- 
ess, and I should say there’ll be a nice little fortune for 
you when you arrive at years of discretion. They tell me 
it’s a great thing to have money, Verity. I don’t know; 
maybe; I never had more than enough for bread and 
butter. But it’s a mighty powerful thing, is money.” 

“No, it isn’t,” contradicted Verity. “It can’t do 
much.” 

“Your grandfather ought to hear you,” said George, 
with a smile. “He thought money could buy every- 
thing.” 

“That was stupid of him,” returned Verity. “I ex- 
pect he spoke without thinking, like I do sometimes, 

7 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


and my governess says to me, ‘Think, Verity, before you 
speak . 9 Grandfather didn't think. ’ ’ 

“Oh!" said the man, amused, “give me your ideas on 
the subject, Verity Marlowe. Expound to me the uses 
and abuses of wealth. ’ ’ 

“There's a lot of things it can't do," said the child, 
thoughtfully, rubbing her cheek against his coat. “Now 
if I want a fine day to go in the Park and play, and it's 
raining, you can’t buy a fine day, can you? And when I 
took my dear Veronica" — this was a lately deceased china 
doll — “out for a walk and dropped her on the sidewalk, 
and she just broke all to pieces, she couldn't come to life 
again with money, could she?" 

“Well, but money could buy you another Veronica." 

“Oh! Uncle George," said Verity, reproachfully, “you 
know it wouldn’t be the same. There couldn’t be an- 
other Veronica. Now could there? You spoke then 
without thinking." 

“Being a very faithful and conservative man myself," 
said Uncle George, whimsically, “and having had one 
Veronica only in my life — she refuses me regularly every 
six months — I admit it would not be the same. At least 
it wouldn’t be the same to you and me. Go on." 

“Well, when poor pussy died, money couldn’t make 
her jump up again and rub herself against my legs, could 
it? And Katie Ryan is blind and her mother and father 
are very rich. That doesn’t make her see, does it? And 
when I have the toothache it’s no good showing the tooth 
a dollar note, is it?" 

George dropped a kiss on her thatch of hair. “Well, 
I always had a sneaking suspicion myself that money 
couldn’t do much, and now you’ve quite convinced me. 
But all the same I must go downstairs and hear the will 
read, and find out how much money he’s left to you and 
Philippa." 

The child clapped her hands as if struck by a fresh 
thought. “Why, Uncle George, if grandfather was so 
rich, why didn’t he buy something to take that tired 

8 


A VERY SMALL HEIRESS 


feeling away, and then he wouldn’t have died? I suppose 
it was because he couldn’t. So if grandfather said money 
could do everything, he was very silly, wasn’t he?” 

“He was plumb crazy to waste all his life and energies 
in the effort to get rich,” said George Bradley, tossing 
her up in the air, “and if you find in five minutes’ time 
that you’re a very rich little girl, don’t think too much 
about it. Riches have buried a good many people.” 

“Did they bury grandfather?” inquired Verity from 
the center of the schoolroom. 

“Yes, my dear, between ourselves, I think they did.” 


CHAPTER II 


A FORTUNE — CONDITIONALLY 

When George Bradley descended to the ground floor, 
he found the mourners sustaining themselves with light 
refreshments. But they were eating in a subdued man- 
ner, as though really to enjoy one’s food at such a time 
would be in the worst of taste. George looked at them 
with amusement. It was indeed a funereal feast. Yet, 
although they were subdued, they ate none the less. 

There were present Verity’s mother, his sister, 
Philippa, in very deep mourning, as was the fashion in 
those days; his mother, Mrs. Arthur Bradley; another 
sister, Mrs. Van Allen, who looked bored to death; and a 
handful of men which included the deceased’s lawyers, 
the heads of his offices, and his old friend, Mr. John 
Ridley, the well-known steel magnate. Not a single eye 
in the whole company showed any signs of redness due to 
tears, although their noses were so tinted owing to the 
wind, which was rather sharp and cold. 

Philippa beckoned to him to come over to where she 
was standing. She was a very handsome woman, of im- 
posing appearance, just over her thirtieth year. Her 
expression at the moment was one of weariness and de- 
pression, which did not become her, but when she was 
animated and the big brown eyes — much darker than 
Verity’s — lit up and sparkled, she was indeed a “good 
looker. ’ ’ Some people found something wanting, and said 
that the face lacked tenderness and depth of feeling. 
George himself always said that she was not awake to 
life’s possibilities and passions, that she was merely a 

10 


A FORTUNE— CONDITIONALLY 


pretty bud with its heart folded. Philippa herself re- 
sented any such criticism, and retorted that George was 
a sentimental ass. But George only twinkled his asinine 
eyes and said: “Wait!” 

“Have you been up to see Verity?” she asked. 

“I have. And she has quite convinced me in a long 
homily that money is a mere trifle — that it isn’t worth 
having.” 

Philippa smiled. “Did you need much convincing, 
George? It’s a pity you don’t pay a little more attention 
to money-getting, ” she continued, looking at him with 
a sort of tolerant family affection. “Veronica wouldn’t 
say no to you if you had a decent income.” 

“Oh! Phil, don’t say that. Don’t tear the delicate 
cobweb of my regard for her. I would rather think that 
she refuses me because my nose is a little too round at 
the tip for beauty, or that she cannot stand my fiddle 
playing, and that she won’t marry me for some perfectly 
good reason like that. She is too delicate and charming 
ever to take much interest in gross money-bags. ’ ’ 

“You’re an impossible person, George. Don’t you 
know that women can’t be delicate and charming unless 
the money-bags are at their disposal? If you haven’t any 
money you get worried and cross, and your delicacy and 
charm vanishes. Such women as myself and Veronica 
must be framed in gold. We’re not Dutch peasant women 
or German fraus. . . . Was Verity all right?” 

“The little heiress was in excellent spirits, and is 
only annoyed that she cannot mourn in royal purple.” 

Philippa laughed. “Verity has a passion for color. 
She must get her artistic eye from you, George. Yes, I 
suppose all the money will be left to Verity.” 

“And you.” 

She shrugged her pretty shoulders in their elaborate 
black coverings. “Yes, I suppose I shall get something, 
but the old man never loved me particularly. He was 
annoyed with me that Verity wasn’t a boy, and he con- 
sidered my habits ‘extravagant and wasteful.’ ” 

11 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


George nodded reflectively. He was looking absent- 
mindedly at some magnificent double daffodils that reared 
their golden heads in a great big bowl. His mother was 
standing beside them, talking to one of the lawyers, and 
the color of the flowers blazed forth against the black of 
her dress in an amazing way. 

“I don't want to seem heartless/ ' continued Philippa, 
quickly, “but I hope things will be rather different now. 
It was not so bad when Robert was alive. Ever since he 
died I've been in a wretched position. I've lived here 
with Verity, with no proper fixed allowance to speak of, 
and he was always grumbling at my bills. He never 
understood the sort of things a woman like myself wants 
and — and expects. He came of lower middle-class Eng- 
lish stock, and he never could bring himself to spend 
money cheerfully. I am sure he hated signing checks. 

I have seen an expression of agony on his face when he 
used to give them to me. It was like having a tooth out 
to sign away money. Oh! I hate miserly people." 

Mrs. Bradley came up to them and caught the last 
words. She was a thin, aristocratic looking woman with 
a refined but weak face. The decisive lines in her 
daughter's face, which might in time become hard, were 
absent in hers. She had never opposed her will to any of 
her children, nor had she ever given them either good or 
bad advice. She let them go their own way entirely. 

“Well, none of the Bradleys or the Van Altmans," 
she had been a Van Altman, “could ever be called mi- 
serly," she said in her rather drawling voice. “Perhaps 
it would have been better if they had had a touch of it." 

“We’re a spendthrift lot, really, "said George, “aren’t 
we?" He took her cup from her. “As a family we've 
let a lot of money dribble through our fingers. I can 
never keep a dollar in my pocket, but I've just contrived 
a cunning arrangement. I've had a funny little pocket 
put right inside my waistcoat that is frightfully incon- 
venient to get at. I have to undress to get money. And 
when I get my dividends I shove most of the money in 

12 


A FORTUNE— CONDITIONALLY 


this pocket. So when I’m out and I feel I must buy 
something or ‘blow the money/ I hesitate because I can't 
get at it. And while I hesitate I am saved, contrary to 
the proverb. I'm thinking of patenting the idea on be- 
half of spendthrift people. I shall advertise it as the 
You-can’t-get-at-it Pocket. Might be a lot of money in 
it. The idea, I mean, not the pocket." 

Just then the lawyer advanced toward Mrs. Marlowe. 
“I think, if it is convenient to you, we will adjourn to 
the library now, and I will read the will." 

"Certainly," said Philippa. "I hope it isn't a very 
long will, Mr. Morgan?" 

"It is quite a short one, Mrs. Marlowe. I shall not 
detain you long. * ' 

"I've just thought of it," whispered George in her 
ear. "Another advantage of not having money is that 
you don’t inflict a will on people." 

There was a general move to the library, which was 
at the other side of the spacious hall. The whole house 
was furnished in a heavily expensive manner — a manner 
which Philippa hated, but had been powerless to alter. 
Good furniture, according to old Richard Marlowe, once 
bought, should be used until it was rickety and unusable. 
That one should refurnish a house according to the fash- 
ion of this year or that, that one should sell furniture 
for a mere song and buy more at an extravagant price, 
was beyond his comprehension. And the craze, just then 
beginning dimly to be felt, for antique furniture from 
Europe, imported at ruinous prices, was to him a mere 
madness that he did not seriously consider. The house 
had been well furnished some twenty years ago, when 
he and his wife and the boy Robert had moved into it. 
His wife had died five years later. When his only son 
came to marry Philippa Bradley, she had naturally ex- 
pected that the old house would be entirely done over 
and refurnished, as he wished them to live with him, but 
the old man would have practically nothing altered. The 
only thing he did was to furnish a bedroom and boudoir 

13 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


for Philippa, and since then the furniture of the school- 
room and nursery had been added. But the downstairs 
rooms had remained almost the same. Philippa had long 
ago given up the task of trying to make them seem 
something other than they were. She saw all her friends 
in her boudoir, and she was merely contemptuously tol- 
erant of the other rooms. 

But on this gusty April day, when its erstwhile owner 
had just been laid to rest, she threw away her tolerance. 
The bright sun, so searching and so pitiless of all that is 
ugly, lit up the library, where they were assembled, in all 
its mediocrity. Over the fireplace was a very bad por- 
trait of the deceased. He could not quite resist the im- 
pulse to have his portrait in the form of a picture, but 
he would not afford the price of a good artist. It was a 
cheap portrait, cheaply done. But the perpetrator could 
not altogether ignore some of the remarkable qualities of 
the sitter. He had managed to express some of the char- 
acter of the man in the picture. Philippa shot a glance 
of dislike at it as she passed in on George’s arm. It 
showed a man who had aged early, whose face was unduly 
lined and furrowed. The mouth had the tenacity and 
dourness of a Scotchman — there was some admixture of 
Scotch blood in his veins — and the lower lip protruded in 
an unbeautiful fashion beneath a straggly white mustache. 
The eyes were hard and suspicious, and yet they showed 
a keen brain at the back of them, an unusual penetration, 
a steadfastness of purpose that was responsible for his go- 
ing so far. But it was not the face of a lovable man, and 
not even Verity, who loved most of the world in the de- 
lightful comprehensive way of childhood, could find much 
to fasten her affections upon. He had migrated to the 
States at the right moment, when perseverance and hard 
work were being rewarded with the shekels upon which 
he ultimately based his fortune. He had always had a 
genius for finance, and as this was coupled with shrewd- 
ness and thrift he had not only made a fortune but 
kept it. 


14 


A FORTUNE— CONDITIONALLY 


But he had never in any sense been anything but an 
Englishman in New York. He had never sung “My 
Country! ’tis of Thee/' as had Verity; he had never 
identified himself with the interests of the country he 
had not adopted but used. He had not talked much about 
the “old country/’ nor flaunted his nationality in the face 
of his competitors, but he had remained doggedly Eng- 
lish. He had hustled, because it was the way to make 
money in America; he had adopted most of its ways 
of living because he had to, but he had hated it all the 
time. His purpose in leaving London, where he had been 
born, and going to America, had been to make money, 
and he had made it. But he had never liked the country 
where he had made it. Few people knew this, especially 
such people as Philippa and her family, for he had been a 
man of few words, and Philippa he had always considered 
an expensive and useless doll. But his son Robert had 
inherited some of his tenacity of purpose, and he had 
greatly desired to marry Philippa when he met her at a 
fashionable ball. Because one of the old man’s tenets 
was that young men should marry early — he had done so 
himself — and that after that they could devote the rest 
of their life to money-getting, he had reluctantly given 
his consent, although Philippa Bradley brought no money 
to the house of Marlowe. A few years later Robert — his 
only child — had been killed, and since then the old man 
had tolerated her just as she had tolerated his furniture. 

They all trooped into the library, a dreary apartment 
which had belonged exclusively to the deceased, and which 
was not brightened by a single flower or frippery of any 
description. It was called a library, but there were very 
few books, for the old man had been too proud to be a 
humbug, and he had not lined the walls with expensive 
books which he did not read. The books that were there 
were mostly on finance and theology, for in a dour, un- 
genial way Richard Marlowe had been religiously in- 
clined. He had helped to build the big church in the 
next block, and was always a regular supporter and at- 

15 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


tendant. But the joy of religion had passed him by, or 
rather he had passed it by with fast-closed eyes and ears. 

The library was unpleasantly reminiscent to Philippa 
of the dead man, for the mere fact that a man is dead and 
can never again open the desk in the corner, take down 
those leather volumes, fill the shabby armchair, is always 
rather dreadful to those who walk the earth upright. 
Almost she was for a moment inclined to be sorry for 
him. Some of her accumulated resentment was beginning 
to fall away as she took her seat between George and Mr. 
Ridley. After all, he had now paid all his debts to her 
and to the world at large. Then some words of a hymn 
she had heard in her childhood returned to her memory 
in an unexpected manner. She half said them to herself, 

“Teach me to live that I may dread 
The grave as little as my bed.” 

If death was only a calm falling to sleep of a wearied 
body, why did every one look upon death as a payment of 
the biggest debt that a man can owe? Why did one wipe 
out all scores against a man because no worse misfortune 
can happen to him? She wondered vaguely over it, while 
the lawyer formally opened his papers, and although she 
did not know it, her eyes were rather wistful and forlorn. 
Sometimes Philippa had a curiously childlike look, so 
that it was difficult to believe she had left her teens long 
behind her. If she had not been a tall woman with a 
fine figure she would have seemed almost girlish at times. 

“Poor Phil!” George whispered affectionately, tuck- 
ing her hand within his arm and enclosing the fingers in 
his, “it will soon be over. It's a depressing business, 
death, isn’t it? It even depresses me, and I am a sort of 
Jack in the Box. I feel the lid pressing me down lower 
and lower.” She smiled, and the pressure of his hand 
was grateful to her. After all, people like George, though 
they never achieved any position or made any money, 
were rather comforting when you were in trouble. 

Then she gave her close and undivided attention to 
16 


A FORTUNE— CONDITIONALLY 


the question of how much money Richard Marlowe had 
left, and how he had left it. Of course, the little child 
in the schoolroom was the heiress, but were there any 
hampering and annoying conditions? The old man had 
no one to leave his money to except herself and Verity, 
and she had but little anxiety as to the disposal of his for- 
tune. Undoubtedly the bulk would go to his grandchild, 
for she was of his own flesh and blood, and in a queer, 
undemonstrative way he had liked Verity. She had never 
been afraid of him or feared to contradict him, and this 
had rather appealed to the grim old man. Philippa had 
often caught him looking at Verity with a flickering 
smile round his mouth, and she had never seen him look 
so at any other human creature. Verity was rather like 
the dead father in appearance; perhaps that had some- 
thing to do with it. 

The lawyer cleared his throat, hemmed and hawed a 
little and then commenced reading. The formal precise 
words of the opening, with their legal phraseology, passed 
her by. She listened vaguely till the trimmings should 
be stripped off the document. The smaller legacies came 
first, but there were very few. There were several small 
and not over-generous gifts to men who had served him 
for many years in business, a bequest of twenty thousand 
dollars to the church at which he had worshiped, with 
the proviso that a marble tablet should be put on its walls 
to his memory, and he left the same sum to his sister, 
Katherine Howard, of Acacia Villa, Kew Gardens, Mid- 
dlesex, England. 

Philippa sat up attentively. Now they were approach- 
ing the real business. She looked up at George, but 
George was staring vaguely at the opposite wall. He was 
wondering what a feminine edition of the grim old man 
could be like. 

Then there was an aggravating pause. For the sky 
had darkened with another rainstorm, and the lawyer 
paused for a moment that the gas might be lighted. 
Most people by this time had electric light, but Richard 
3 17 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


Marlowe had never taken kindly to it, and electricity had 
not been introduced into the house. 

In the half-light the gas flared oddly over the faces of 
the listeners. It seemed to distort them and make them 
all unreal, like things seen in a dream. 

The voice of the lawyer droned on once more. “To 
my daughter-in-law, Philippa Julie, the widow of my 
son, Robert, I direct that a yearly sum of $15,000 shall 
be paid from my estate and investments, on condition that 
she does not oppose my wishes in regard to my grand- 
daughter, Verity, in any way whatever; also that the sum 
of $300,000 be paid to her on the wedding-day of my 
granddaughter, Verity, should that marriage be in accord- 
ance with the following conditions. I leave everything 
else of which I am possessed to be held in trust for the 
aforementioned Verity Marlowe, the income to be devo- 
ted to her education and maintenance until marriage, and 
the principal to be transferred to her on her wedding- 
day, if she shall marry an Englishman who has been re- 
sident in and educated in Great Britain, and whose par- 
ents are British subjects. If she shall marry an American 
or any other foreigner, she shall forfeit her inheritance 
entirely, which shall then be equally divided between the 
following English charities: The Society for the Propaga- 
tion of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, Dr. Barnardo’s 
Homes for Waifs and Strays, the Ragged School and 
Homes for Superannuated Christian Workers. 

“I make this stipulation with regard to my grand- 
daughter because I am a British subject, and I wish the 
wealth which I have accumulated at the expense of my 
health and life to go to my native country. I do not 
like the American man, and I wish to spare Verity from 
marrying one. I appoint as her guardians my old friend, 
John Ridley, and her uncle, George Bradley.” 

When the lawyer ceased there was a stupefied silence, 
the only sound was the folding up of the fatal document. 
Never in his life had George Bradley been so surprised. 
That he should be appointed one of Verity’s guardians! 

18 


A FORTUNE— CONDITIONALLY 

Why had Marlowe selected the fool of the family for such 
a position? 

Suddenly he was aware that Philippa had risen, and 
was speaking in quick, fierce anger. 

“It’s infamous,” she was saying, “it can’t be legal. 
I shall contest the will.” 

The lawyer surveyed her set white face and gave a 
faint shrug of his shoulders. “It is quite in order, 
madam, and I think it would be useless to think of con- 
testing it. Mr. Marlowe was certainly in possession of all 
his faculties when he made the will, and though it may 
seem unreasonable to you, still it may have seemed rea- 
sonable from Mr. Marlowe’s point of view. Mr. Mar- 
lowe was a British subject, and I know he always hoped 
to go back to England when he could retire from busi- 
ness. He was beginning to make arrangements when his 
fatal illness overtook him.” 

“It’s a wicked will,” said Philippa, trembling with 
passion. “She is my daughter, and she was born in 
America. She is an American subject. I won’t let her 
marry an Englishman and live in England.” 

“The choice will rest with her, if you will allow me 
to say so,” said the lawyer, courteously, “and I must 
in fairness to yourself remind you that your allow- 
ance is dependent on your not opposing the deceased’s 
wishes.” 

“I — I — oh! it’s infamous,” cried Philippa. 

George gently drew her down to the seat beside him. 

“Phil, dear, don’t upset yourself. Try and take it 
more calmly.” 

“I can’t be calm. It’s the wicked will of the wicked 
old man. Oh! George, can he, can he do this?” 

“A man can do what he likes with his money,” said 
George, slowly, “unless it can be proved that he was of 
unsound mind. I don’t think any one would ever believe 
that Marlowe’s mind was unhinged. But why he made 
me one of Verity’s guardians beats me. I thought he 
despised me as the last and least thing in creation.” 

19 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


John Ridley crossed over to them with a perturbed 
face. He was a formal, dry man, with a long white 
beard, which he was continually caressing. 

“Mrs. Marlowe, I had no idea of the contents of this 
will — no idea. I knew, for he mentioned it to me some 
months ago, that he wished me to act as a guardian to 
your daughter. I was aware that she was going to be 
practically his sole heiress, but of the conditions, I — er 
— knew nothing.” 

“He was mad,” said Philippa, shortly. 

John Ridley shook his head. “He was English to the 
backbone, and I don’t think any one ever knew how 
deeply he hated this country. A few weeks before his 
death he let me see something of what he had been feel- 
ing and thinking all these years. I must confess that it 
was a revelation to me, and I thought I knew him very 
well. He said to me then, ‘Ridley, they’ve killed me. 
I’ve fought and I’ve conquered, but they’ve hustled the 
life out of me. If I’d been in England now at this age 
I should have been a hearty man with a good many com- 
fortable years before me in which to retire, but America 
has made an old man of me before my time! The pace 
has killed me.’ ” 

George nodded. He could see the’ brooding, resent- 
ful, dogged soul of the man in those words. He came of 
stock that never gave in, that fought on with clenched 
teeth and rigid muscles, that hung on till it got the thing 
it wanted, and tired out its opponents. He had wrested 
wealth from America, he had forced her to serve his pur- 
poses, yet she had got him in the end. And this will was 
the last jab back at her from the grave. 

“My allowance is ridiculous,” said Philippa, bitterly. 
“I wish to God I had never married Robert.” 

“Hush,” said George. “I don’t like the will myself, 
but it doesn’t do any good to talk like that, dear. Per- 
sonally, I don’t mind a bit whether Verity marries an 
Englishman or — a heathen Chinee so long as she is happy, 
but I think she should have an entirely free choice in the 

20 


A FORTUNE— CONDITIONALLY 


matter. No woman could fail to be influenced by this 
will. And to think that I am one of her guardians — !’’ 

“I hate Englishmen/ ’ said Philippa, her voice intense 
with feeling, “they both of them, father and son, made 
my life intolerable, and I am asked to give up my child 
to su.ch a life/' 

“She is not forced to marry an Englishman/' said 
George, quietly. 

“No, but she'll be a pauper! And I shall be a 
pauper, too. Thank you, George." 

“I'll try and make some money," said George, un- 
ruffled. 

“You! You’d never pick up money if it fell at your 
feet like manna from heaven. You’d be looking up to 
see the sky effect as it fell! Oh, it’s intolerable." 

Her mother came up and joined her daughter’s tirade 
against the will. The other daughter, Susie Van Allen, 
joined in the conversation also. 

“The only thing you can do, Phil," she said, in her 
lazy drawling voice, like her mother’s, “is to bring up 
Verity to love everything and everybody English. Re- 
verse the engines. Pave the way for the wedding pro- 
cession." 

“I sha’n’t alter anything," said Philippa, defiantly, 
her brown eyes flashing. 

“Oh! that’s foolish. You’ve got a good many years. 
You can teach the young ideas to shoot England- ward, 
and then you can take her over, give her a London sea- 
son, and marry her off. You won’t find any difficulty 
with her fortune. Englishmen swallow the gilded pill 
very easily." 

“Oh, don’t!" 

“After all, you married an Englishman!" 

“Yes, but he, at least, had been brought up over here 
and was resident here." 

“Yes, his clothes were American, but inside he was 
very English," returned Susie, reflectively. “He never 
could understand the proper position of women. He 

21 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


looked upon them either as cushions or as footstools. 
His father thought of them as footstools only. ’ ’ 

“It’s the Englishman's sole idea of women," said 
Philippa, bitterly. 

“Oh, go easy!" cried George. “I’ve knocked up 
against a good many Englishmen, and some of them have 
been awfully decent chaps, although they’re not quite 
so well trained to the feminine heel as the American 
man." 

Susie smiled. “Try and think of the old man tag- 
ging about after a woman. Now, doesn’t that make you 
smile, Phil?" 

“I’m too sore, Susie. If you had children, you’d be 
more sympathetic." 

She had touched a raw spot in Susie’s heart. She 
had married a rich man, and there seemed no prospects 
of any children to inherit their wealth. The only thing 
in the world she wanted was a child to call her mother. 
George saw her wince, and Verity’s words recurred to 
him: “Money can’t do much." He spoke his thought. 

“After all, Philippa, Verity is right. Money doesn’t 
mean everything in life." 

Philippa made an impatient gesture with her very 
expressive hands. 

“George, I’m sick of that sort of talk. If it isn’t 
everything, it’s nearly everything. The little bit lack- 
ing isn’t worth a snap of the fingers. Life’s a complex 
game nowadays. We need money for a thousand wants. ’ ’ 

“But why have a thousand wants, my dear unreason- 
able sister?" He spoke gently, for she was looking very 
upset. 

“Why? Why? Why have you got two eyes instead 
of four, and why is your hair brown instead of sky blue? 
George, you exasperate me. I think the most exasperat- 
ing creature on earth is the man who asks a woman why 
she needs new dresses and new hats. He ought to be 
dumped on a desert island where he could shake down 
bananas for her to eat and pick up shells for her to string 

22 


A FORTUNE— CONDITIONALLY 

and wear.” Then her expression changed to one of 
abject unhappiness. She looked at George, and the tears 
gathered in her eyes. 

George put his arms round her comfortingly. ‘ 'Come, 
let’s get out of this depressing apartment. Let’s come 
up to your room. I should really start to make money if 
I stopped in this room long. I shouldn’t be able to think 
of anything else.” 

There was a general move, and all the visitors left 
save Mrs. Bradley, who was staying in the house, and 
who retired to her bedroom to rest. 

“He’s dead,” said Mrs. Bradley, solemnly, “and we 
are taught to speak no ill of the dead, but I wish he 
could come back for five minutes and I could give him a 
bit of my mind.” 

“You couldn’t do it in five minutes,” said George. 
“He’s treated you shamefully, Philippa. To have left 
you with a mere pittance, and he a millionaire — oh! I 
can’t express my feeling.” 

“He never liked me,” returned Philippa, “but I 
wouldn’t mind so much for myself. It’s Verity.” 

“I’ll be up in a minute,” called out George to them 
as they mounted the stairs. “Ridley wants to fix up an 
appointment with me. Fancy me a man of affairs!” 


CHAPTER III 


** REVERSE THE ENGINES ” 

Philippa passed wearily up the wide, solid stairs of 
the house she hated to her own room on the second floor. 
She was tired and depressed beyond words. Even the 
pretty room with its dove-gray walls and mauve curtains 
did not soothe her. She flung herself on the couch and 
buried her head in one of the pinkish mauve cushions. 
Only her head with its thick glossy brown hair was visi- 
ble. Her shoulders began to shake, and presently the 
sound of muffled sobs sounded through the room. 

As she lay there and cried she reviewed her life with 
the Marlowes, father and son. She had been married at 
the age of eighteen to Robert Marlowe. He had been 
a good-looking man, distinguished by his height and 
physique from most of the men in her set. At their first 
meeting he had made up his mind to marry her, and in a 
masterful, high-handed manner, had forced a reluctant 
consent out of her. She was too young to know the real 
meaning of love and marriage. He was a millionaire’s 
son, and the Bradleys were poor with extravagant tastes. 
Her parents urged on the match, and it was no wonder 
that she succumbed — not loving any one else — to the man 
who insisted on marrying her. 

Once having caged the bird, Robert Marlowe ceased 
his pursuit. He gave the bird ample food and water, 
and a fairly comfortable cage— they lived with his father 
— and he treated her as part of his goods and chattels 
from thenceforward. He had heard a good deal of talk 
about the independence of American women, but he 
absolutely ignored it. He had behaved much the same 

24 


“REVERSE THE ENGINES” 


as other American youths, and bowed before woman’s 
throne until he married Philippa, because he found that 
it was necessary if he wanted to have a good time. But 
having found a pretty partner for life, the instincts of his 
ancestors showed themselves very strongly, and as Susie 
Van Allen had said, he was very English under his 
American clothes. Philippa beat herself against the bars 
of her cage in vain. He controlled the purse-strings, and 
she was helpless. When she was pleasant he petted her 
as he would have done Verity, had she not been a very 
small infant in arms, and when she was disagreeable he 
left her severely alone and went to his club. He made no 
effort to gain her love: he was not even conscious that she 
did not care for him. He had the privileges of a hus- 
band, and this he considered “love.” The father did not 
like to have his home filled with “a pack of strange peo- 
ple,” and she was not allowed to entertain. Her hus- 
band objected to her “gadding about” outside. It was 
not an amusing or interesting existence for a young wife, 
and when six years after marriage he was killed in a car- 
riage accident, she donned widow’s weeds with very few 
regrets. For she was too honest to pretend, and she 
realized vaguely that there must be something in mar- 
riage that she had not experienced. 

But in those years with Robert Marlowe her heart 
hardened. Her aims became material and worldly. She 
grew to sneer at sentiment, even though at the bottom of 
her heart she knew it was something that she longed to 
find. She did not believe in love, because no man had 
touched her heart. She had lived in the last few years 
for the time when she should be an unfettered rich 
woman, for she had seen for some time past that Richard 
Marlowe was slowly but surely breaking up, and that the 
end would not be far off. 

The end had come, and the woman sobbing on the sofa 
knew that the Marlowes had defeated her once again. 
She was still under their thumbs, dead as well as alive. 
The bitterness of it all surged over her in a flood. 

25 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


She felt George’s soothing hand on her shoulder. He 
let her cry it out, knowing that some of the bitterness 
would thus be washed away. When she was quieter he 
said: 

“See here, Phil, perhaps it isn’t so bad as you think. 
I know your allowance is small to what you expected, but 
you can live very comfortably on it. And you’ll prob- 
ably marry again.” She shook her head vigorously 
among the cushions. “Oh! yes, you will. It isn’t nat- 
ural for an attractive woman like you to go through life 
alone. And as for Verity marrying an Englishman, well, 
she won’t be the first American to do that. As I said be- 
fore, not all Englishmen are like the Marlowes. I’ll 
make it the mission of my life, if you like, to find a nice 
Englishman for Verity. I might select one as a boy and 
bring him up,” he added with a twinkle. 

‘‘Haven’t you got any patriotism, George?” said 
Philippa, indignantly. 

‘‘Lots, only the stubborn fact remains that Verity is 
only half American. My dear, you don’t like it. One 
never does like stubborn facts. One always shuts one’s 
eyes to them until one falls over them and comes a 
cropper. ’ ’ 

‘‘She’s my child. She takes after me. Why, she 
hates the English as much as I do.” 

George laughed. He adored women, but he was not 
blind to their occasional lack of logic. 

‘‘My dear sister— why? You’ve taught her to do so. 
Babies are not American or English, they’re only babies. 
I went up to the nursery a year or two ago and found 
Verity playing with a lot of soldiers. A fearful battle 
was going on. I heard the cries of the dying and 
wounded as I ascended the stairs. It was a bloody battle 
between the English and the Americans. When I arrived 
a frightful slaughter was in progress. The English 
were running away like hares, pursued by the intrepid 
Americans. The engagement ended with the total anni- 
hilation of the English, and without the loss of a single 

26 


“REVERSE THE ENGINES” 


man to America! You never saw such a licking as we 
gave them. . . . Yes, you must smile at that. ” 

“You are silly, George.” 

“I was very much amused, and saw what she had been 
imbibing from you, but at the time it didn’t matter. But 
now, Phil, we had indeed better reverse the engines, as 
Susie says. Don’t set her against the English because 
you have suffered. Let her judge for herself. If she 
does happen to fall in love with an Englishman, and 
they’re handsomer animals than we are, all the better. 
Try and cheer up, old girl.” 

Eventually Philippa consented to sit up and smooth 
her ruffled hair. 

“That’s better. Now let’s go up and have school- 
room tea with Verity. Let’s forget it’s been a depress- 
ing day, and go and spread jam very thickly on bread and 
butter. ’ ’ 

“What a childish person you are,” said Philippa, yet 
smiling a little. 

“Thank God for it. I hope I shall never be too old 
and ponderous to find a solid comfort in spreading jam 
thickly on bread and butter. One is so amply revenged 
for the days when it was spread thinly for one. Jam’s 
cheap, too. And there are lots of things in life which 
cost as little as jam in hard cash, and if one spreads them 
thickly over one’s life they are a very real comfort and 
satisfaction. . . . Come along, come and forget old 
age’s beastlinesses, and let’s be Verity’s age.” 

He led her to the door with his arm round her. Sud- 
denly she stopped as they reached the door. 

“George, I shall not tell Verity of that wretched 
clause in the will. At least, not for a good many years.” 

George considered. “No, there’s no necessity. She 
can remain in ignorance till she reaches — blessed phrase 
— years of discretion. Personally, I’ve never reached 
them. Phil, why do you think the old man made me her 
guardian? It’s the only thing that makes me suspect old 
age had crept upon him.” 


27 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


Philippa looked up into his face with its kindly eyes, 
the eyes of a dreamer and lover of humanity, at the ten- 
der curves of the rather large mouth, and her own eyes 
became softer. 

‘‘He knew you were as honest as the day, and that a 
trust imposed on you would be faithfully fulfilled. He 
was a shrewd judge of men in his way, George. John 
Ridley is the business head, he will keep you from going 
astray in the paths of finance, and I think the old man 
knew that you were fond of Verity.” 

‘‘Well, it’s been the surprise of my life,” said 
George, truthfully. 

They found Verity curled up in a big chair, her feet 
under her, frowning over the history preparation she had 
neglected all the afternoon. She hailed their advent 
with joy. 

‘‘Oh! Uncle George, you’re just in time to help me 
with my lesson.” 

They both stood and surveyed her as she looked up at 
them eagerly. She seemed such a scrap in the big chair, 
and yet her future had become a matter of such great 
importance. They both regarded her for the moment 
with different eyes. She was the heiress to a million of 
money, and she was going to marry an Englishman. 

The child was quick to notice their queer regard. 

‘‘What’s the matter?” she said, quickly. “Is my 
hair very untidy?” 

“Shocking,” said her uncle, “I thought you were 
Struwelpeter when I came in.” Philippa went up to her 
and kissed her. 

“Why, mumsie, how tired you look? Are you tired?” 

“Yes,” replied George, “she is going to sit quite 
quiet till the tea comes in.” 

Verity gave a sudden peal of laughter. “Oh! Georgie 
Porgie, I was just reading how our men painted them- 
selves up like Indians and boarded the ships in Boston 
Harbor, and emptied all the tea chests from England 
into the water.” She threw herself back and roared 

28 


“REVERSE THE ENGINES” 


with laughter. “Oh! mustn’t the English have been 
cross? It served them right, didn’t it?” 

“What have you got there?” asked George, his mouth 
twitching. 

“Oh, it’s my history lesson, and it’s about the War of 
Independence. Aren’t you glad, Uncle George, we licked 
the English? I am. I do think they were impudent to 
ask us to pay taxes on tea and lead and glass. Miss 
Thomson was telling me all about it yesterday, and she 
says Washington was the most wonderful man that ever 
lived. She says we ought to be tremendously proud of 
him. I should like to go and see the house where he died, 
mumsie. May I, one day?” 

Philippa and George exchanged glances. He was 
leaning on the back of the child’s chair. Even Philippa, 
whose sense of humor was not very well developed, had 
to turn her eyes away. 

“I don’t think you’d better learn history, Verity,” 
said George, over her head. 

Verity clapped her hands. “Oh, tell Miss Thomson 
so, uncle. Now help me with this, please. What’s a 
'Hessian troop’?” 

“Ah! a troop of soldiers from Germany.” 

“Ah!” cried Verity, triumphantly. “England had 
to get Germany to help them, and then we beat them!” 

“Miss Verity Marlowe, in strict fairness I must in- 
form you that we obtained help from France.” 

“Are you sure?” said Verity, a little downcast. “I 
wish I had been there to fight the English. Wouldn’t 
you have liked to be there and fight them?” 

“Reverse the engines,” murmured George, with a 
whimsical expression. 

But Philippa was laughing hysterically. Verity 
looked on amazed. “Why do you laugh so, you and 
Uncle George? Are you in a ‘giggly’ mood?” 

“We’ve just found out such a good joke,” said Uncle 
George. 

Verity looked at them doubtfully. “Am I the joke?” 

29 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


George Bradley laughed and, swinging her up, perched 
her on his shoulder. She was so small for her age that 
he could do it easily. 

Verity gave a whoop of delight. “I’m King of the 
Castle. I’m America, and you” — drubbing on his head — 
* ‘you're nasty old England. And you’re — getting — the 
worst — of it! I’m on the top of Bunker Hill and I am 
opening fire on you. I’m General Washington and you’re 
General Gage, and ” 

But General Washington was biting the dust, his hair 
flying in all directions. 

“ Apologize — apologize to England ” 

”1 won’t — I won’t,” came in muffled tones from the 
region of the carpet. 

“Oh! won’t you — then shall I ” 

“No, no. I apologize. Let me go. Oh, Uncle 
George ! ’ ’ 

When peace and order was once more restored, and 
they were seated at the round table having tea, Verity 
said, “Why did you make me apologize? Why did you 
take England’s part?” 

“Goodness knows,” said Uncle George, taking an 
enormous helping of strawberry jam. “Ask your 
mother. Perhaps she knows.” 

“Do you know, mumsie?” asked Verity, again. 

“I haven’t the ghost of a notion,” said her mother, 
avoiding Uncle George’s eye. 

Verity considered for a moment with her mouth full 
of bread and butter and jam. She was more of a 
Struwelpeter than ever since her close acquaintance with 
the floor. 

“Well, any way,” she said, with an air of finality 
that left no room for further controversy, “it was only a 
silly pretense, because America did defeat England after 
all. I’m surprised at you, Uncle George.” 

“I’m surprised at myself,” said George Bradley. 
“More jam, please.” 


30 


PART TWO 


THE BLOSSOM 



CHAPTER IV 


VERITY IN SEARCH OF A HUSBAND 

The great ship looked as solid and immovable as the 
quay itself. It seemed like a huge freak hotel with an 
unusual entrance. At least, that is how it appeared to 
Verity. 

As soon as she had descended the steps and stepped 
upon the lower platform of the quay, the excitement of 
the journey got into her blood. She had pretended that 
she was not excited at the idea of going to Europe, but 
she abandoned the pose as soon as the world was shut 
away by the upper quay. For even to the most lethargic 
and unimaginative, there is something thrilling in going 
down to the sea in great ships. The child will play for 
hours with a penny boat that is more often under the 
water than on it: it is the romance of it that enchains 
his interest. Why does it walk on the sea while he can- 
not? Where is it sailing to? 

And even though the penny ship has become a great 
Cunarder which has almost ceased to be a ship at all, and 
is only a swift-moving hotel, there is still the same hint 
of romance, the touch of adventure. Adventure to the 
young is like the glimpse of the furry brown rabbit 
to the sporting dog. Something stirs within you, some- 
thing leaps up with a shout and sets the pulses beating 
wildly. It may be the merest hint, as intangible as a 
perfume, but it is enough. 

Ever afterward to Verity, even after she had crossed 
the Atlantic many a time and oft, the curious odor that 
hangs about a big vessel always seemed to her the breath 
4 33 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


of adventure, and at the times when her emotions were 
most stirred she always imagined that she caught that 
odor again. 

The quay itself was all of a bustle and a flurry. Most 
of the men and women seemed to have packed themselves 
into unusual-looking garments, and there was a strained 
note in their greetings to one another. Presently a 
broad, broad strip of water would separate them from 
their friends, the great seas would roll between them. 
Some of the old travelers tried to look bored as they 
passed the excited laughing groups on the quay, but even 
they could not pretend that it was exactly like stepping 
into a train for a few hours' journey. 

Verity looked round with her youthful eager eyes, 
and they said, as plainly as possible, “I am going on my 
first sea voyage.” For at eighteen one forgets to pull 
down the blinds. There is nothing ugly or sad to hide. 
As she surveyed the impedimenta lying about, Verity 
rippled with laughter. 

“Oh, mother, it seems as if all the world were done up 
in parcels and bags! Oh, aren't those trunks brand-new! 
I really should have rolled them about the house a bit. 
... I wonder if all these people are going to travel 
with us? Most of them look awfully worried at present, 
don’t they?” 

Philippa smiled and nodded, and looked round for 
some friends who had promised to see them off. 

“We'll go to our cabins first, and then we'll look out 
for them.” 

They passed on to the great ship. When they opened 
their cabin door Philippa thought at first there was some 
mistake, for the room was so full. Then she found that 
the hampers and boxes contained offerings of fruit and 
flowers sent to cheer their seaward way. 

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Verity, “we should 
never eat all that fruit in a month, let alone five days! 
These are from Mr. Ridley, mother. Isn’t he a nice old 
thing? That reminds me, let's find Uncle George. I 

34 


VERITY IN SEARCH OF A HUSBAND 


wonder if he is on board yet?” For George Bradley was 
going with them. 

“He has gone up town to say good-by to Veronica 
Rogers,” said Philippa, turning over the cards attached 
to the offerings. 

“Poor Uncle George! Why doesn’t she marry him? I 
would, if the law permitted me to marry my uncle. I 
think he would make such a jolly husband.” 

Philippa shot her a curious glance. Verity talked 
very glibly of marrying, but had she any real ideas on 
the subject? Philippa would have given a great deal to 
find out, but Verity had never confided in her. 

Just then they heard George’s genial voice behind 
them. 

“Here you are! Surrounded by offerings! I knew 
you wouldn’t want these peaches, but still I brought 
some, because I knew you’d hand them over to me.” 

He and Verity looked at one another and laughed, 
not because the joke was a good one, but because the 
spirit of adventure was on board. 

“Uncle, dear, isn’t it fun? I want to skip about all 
over the place.” 

“Come on, come and skip with me. Phil, I heard your 
sister Susie inquiring for you just now. No, Verity, 
there are a few things I won’t stand. If you take hold of 
my arm in that affectionate manner people will think we 
are a honeymoon couple. I do strike at that!” 

“Do I look old enough to be a bride?” said Verity. 
“Do I, mother?” 

“I was a bride at your age,” returned Philippa, 
smelling at some American Beauty roses. 

George looked at them both critically. “Well, no 
one will believe you are mother and daughter. You look 
like sisters.” 

“Nonsense, George,” returned Philippa, “respect my 
thirty-seven years!” 

“Well, if you’ve got them you hide them jolly well. 
Seriously, Phil, I don’t remember ever having seen you 

35 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


look younger or better-looking. I am proud of my 
family.’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Verity, “it’s utterly ridiculous to call 
you 'Mother. ’ I shall call you Phil, too. Let’s imagine 
we’re sisters. It will be much more fun. I must eat 
one of your peaches, Georgie Porgie.” 

“Oh, Verity, this is unkind, and no offerings have 
been laid at my shrine! Never mind, perhaps you will 
be hors de combat later on, and you won’t want to eat 
any fruit. ’ ’ 

“Pig!” retorted Verity, setting her little white teeth 
in the luscious peach, “now come and skip round the 
ship!” 

Philippa found Susie Van Allen sitting on deck wait- 
ing for her. She had grown rather plump in the last 
eight years, and she did not court unnecessary stairs. 
Although she was only a couple of years older than Phil- 
ippa, she looked much older. 

What George had said was perfectly true. Philippa 
was wonderfully youthful for her years: no one would 
have taken her for much over thirty. Even Susie was 
struck by it as Philippa came up in her neat, smart blue 
serge. 

“My! you are a good looker, Phil, there isn’t any 
doubt about it. Jack March was raving about you the 
other day. It was an awful surprise to him when I told 
him you’d got a grown-up daughter just leaving college. 
And they say American women don’t wear well! I 
haven’t, but then I sit about too much and get fat. I do 
wonder you haven’t married again, Phil.” 

“Why should I? I am independent, and I am not 
helpless. Why should I bother with a husband?” 

Susie looked at her curiously. She had never under- 
stood Philippa, although they had grown up side by side. 

“Well, I wouldn’t be without a husband for any- 
thing. Don’t you ever feel you want a man you can call 
your own, that is in the house, so to speak? It’s so cozy 
to have some one you can go and talk to about every- 

36 


VERITY IN SEARCH OF A HUSBAND 


thing, from the iniquities of your dressmaker to the 
yearnings of your soul. It’s part of his job to listen.” 

“I think I early got into the habit of keeping my 
thoughts to myself,” returned Philippa. “Besides, I’ve 
got Verity and George.” 

“Yes, but it isn’t quite the same — at least, it 
wouldn’t be to me. Well, Phil, you’re setting forth on 
the great adventure! The American eagle is flying to 
British soil. I rather wish I were coming to see the fun. ” 

“She likes the idea of going to England. I was 
rather afraid she wouldn’t.” 

“Oh! any girl would like the idea. But whether she 
will like Englishmen when she gets there — that’s another 
story, isn’t it? Are you still keeping to your resolution 
not to tell her the conditions of her grandfather’s will?” 

“Yes. What good can it do? You know what hap- 
pens with a young girl. If you tell her it would please 
you for her to marry Mr. A., that is the one man she 
determines not to marry. It can do no good, and it might 
do a lot of harm.” 

“You run the risk of some one enlightening her acci- 
dentally. A good many people know the terms of the 
will.” 

“If chance lets her into the secret, so be it. I don’t 
want to tell her. ’ ’ 

“You won’t force her to marry an Englishman, will 
you?” said Susie, who was fond of Verity. “You won’t 
use your influence too much?” 

“Why, Susie,” said Philippa, and her cheeks flushed, 
“do you think I should try to force Verity to marry any 
man she didn’t love? Do you think my own experi- 
ence — ” She stopped and checked herself. She had 
acquired the habit of repression. “I shall give her 
every chance, ” she continued more calmly, “of inheriting 
her grandfather’s fortune, that is all. If she is thrown 
among English people and does fall in love with an 
Englishman, it will certainly be to her advantage to do 
so. It is a big fortune, and she ought to inherit it.” 

37 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“ThereTl be a nice little sum for you, too,” said 
Susie, thoughtfully. “Phil, haven’t you been rather 
extravagant lately?” 

Philippa shrugged her shoulders. “Yes, I suppose I 
have. We’re a thriftless family, aren’t we, Susie? I 
can’t help running up bills on my absurd income. Life 
gets more expensive every day. And in my position I 
ought to have had a decent income.” 

“That’s why I wonder you haven’t married again. 
You’ve had plenty of offers, I know.” 

“I shouldn’t marry for money,” returned Philippa, 
proudly. 

“Then you should live on your income,” said Susie, a 
little sharply. She often found Philippa irritating. 

“Maybe. Only one becomes almost friendly with 
bills after a bit. One sees them so often. You feel as 
though you had lost a friend when you finally pay one 
and get it out of the way. . . . Verity’s rather attrac- 
tive, I think?” 

“She’s a darling. You ought to have no difficulty in 
marrying her off. ... Oh! how do you do, Mr. Vicary? 
Are you crossing this trip? Well, let me introduce you 
to a fellow-passenger— my sister, Mrs. Marlowe.” 

He bowed, and at first glance Philippa thought him 
quite young, under thirty. Afterward she found out 
that he was well over it, but his clean-shaven face was 
unlined, and his body was very alert and springy. 

“Yes,” he said, “I’m going over to my sister’s wed- 
ding. She’s marrying Lord Finborough’s eldest son, and 
I’m expected to grace the ceremony.” 

“Oh, another international marriage,” said Susie, 
not without intention. “I saw about it in the Herald .” 

“Yes. Getting awfully common nowadays, aren’t 
they? I told her it would be much more uncommon if 
she married an American, but she’d seen his ancestral 
home and she wrote me tons about the picture gallery 
and ^ the old moat and all sorts of stuffy mediseval things. 
She’s really marrying the castle, not him. Fancy being 

38 


VERITY IN SEARCH OF A HUSBAND 


married for a few old bricks and some stagnant water in 
a ditch!” 

“Have you an ambition to be married for yourself 
alone?’ ’ said Philippa, smiling. 

“Yes, I want to be married for my very, very own 
self. Of course, only a fool would do it, but I won’t be 
given away with a sumptuous flat or a house on Fifth 
Avenue. Oh, what a pretty girl!’’ he said involuntarily. 

It was Verity walking, no, dancing along the deck 
with George by her side. Her red brown hair had be- 
come a little loosened with her strenuous roamings over 
the body of the ship — she insisted on “seeing the wheels 
go round — ” and it framed her small face like an aureole. 
And it was a very small face, more like a narcissus than 
ever, for in the sun the yellow lights in the eyes were 
like gleams of gold. Her body was like the slender stalk 
of that flower. She had been a small child for her age 
and she made a very petite woman. Her body was perfect 
in its line and sinuosity, but it had none of her mother’s 
dignity and command. She was like a dainty animated 
Dresden figure as she skipped along the deck. 

Vicary knew George Bradley; they belonged to the 
same club, and he was accordingly introduced to Verity. 

“I must be going in a minute or two,’’ said Susie. “I 
see signs that visitors will shortly have to take their de- 
parture. Well, George, I hope you will have a good 
time. Is it a good many years since you last went to 
England?’’ 

“Pretty nearly twenty,” returned her brother. “I 
was reckoning it out this morning. I don’t believe there 
have been so many changes in England in that time as 
there have been here. Susie, go and see Veronica 
sometimes. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I will. But how much longer are you going 
on courting Veronica? You’ve been doing it for eight 
or nine years, I’m sure.” 

“Ten, to be exact,” said George, cheerfully, “and to 
tell you the truth I feel more hopeful to-day than I have 

39 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


ever felt. Do you know she was quite affected at the 
idea that she wouldn’t see me for a year or more? She 
was almost upset. ’ ’ 

“You should have pressed your suit at that favorable 
moment,” said Susie. “Opportunity and importunity 
should go hand in hand.” 

“I know. She said she would seriously think it over. 
She said she might come to England later on; she wanted 
a thorough change. I believe, I believe I shall marry 
her yet!” 

Susie laughed. “Well, there’s been no hurry about 
it, George. Of course it’s your own fault that she hasn’t 
married you.” 

“You mean I’m not good enough for her?” said 
George, humbly. 

“No, I don’t,” returned Susie, laughing. “It’s be- 
cause you’ve been at her beck and call too much. Oh! 
yes, you can look at me incredulously. I know what 
I’m talking about. A woman who has got a devoted 
lover who will take her to concerts and escort her to 
parties, who spreads his affections Raleigh-like as a 
mat for her to walk on, isn’t in any hurry to marry. 
You’ve overcourted Veronica. She’ll miss you now you’re 
gone. Don’t spread yourself too much if she comes to 
Europe. ’ ’ 

“I wonder — ” began George, thoughtfully. 

But a bell began to ring, and Susie made ready to go. 

“Are we nearly off?” cried Verity, excitedly. “Oh, 
good-by, New York! Good-by, Auntie Susie! Why, are 
you coming with us, Mr. Vicary? How nice! Wave your 
handkerchief to us, auntie. I insist on your doing that. 
Give me yours, Georgie Porgie, it’s bigger than mine.” 

A boy rushed up the gangway with a telegram. 
“Mr. George Bradley, Mr. George Brad ” 

“Here — quick!” 

He tore it open. It said: “Come back soon , or I shall 
come over to you. Veronica. ’ ’ 

“Anything important?” said Verity, at his elbow. 

40 


VERITY IN SEARCH OF A HUSBAND 

'‘Yes, very. Here.” He tossed the boy a five dollar 
bill. 

‘ ‘ Uncle , how extravagant of you ! Did you think it 
was a dollar?” 

“No, but it was worth it.” He drew her aside and 
showed her the telegram. 

She gave his arm a squeeze. “Oh! I'm so glad. I 
can see you’re glad. Does it mean all that, uncle?” she 
whispered. She saw the answer in his eyes, and her own 
grew thoughtful and serious. “I’m rather afraid of 
love,” she said, under her breath, “because it means just 
everything , doesn’t it? And you can’t put it away and 
forget all about it, or play with it like a game for a few 
hours every day, can you?” 

“No, Verity,” said George, gently, putting his hand 
over her little one, “you’ve just said it. It’s every- 
thing. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER V 


HANDS OFF, AMERICA! 

Uncle George/ ’ said Verity, drawing a deep 
breath, '‘do you feel very small this morning?' ' They 
had been at sea a couple of days. 

“No,” said Uncle George, “I feel about my usual 
size and weight, thank you.” 

“I don't mean that. I mean all this.” She swept the 
broad expanse of sea and horizon with a comprehensive 
gesture. “Doesn’t it make you feel a speck? I feel just 
like a — match floating on the ocean.” 

It was early morning, and with the enthusiasm of youth 
and gladness Verity had risen early and routed George 
out of his berth. There were no passengers on the upper 
deck; only one or two sailors cast admiring glances at 
her eager face. She had tied her head up in a quaint 
little motor bonnet, and the peach-colored ninon veil was 
knotted under her chin. The bonnet suited the odd little 
face as nothing stylish and fashionable ever did, for Veri- 
ty was not and never would be conventionally pretty. 

“Well, Verity,” said George, plaintively, “I do think 
you are the unkindest thing! You drag me out of bed 
when I was just finishing my beauty sleep— I shall have 
to do without my beauty all day— you don't even let 
me get any coffee before I come on deck, and at the end 
of it all you want me to feel a speck! I do not feel a 
speck. I have a very healthy appetite, and I refuse to 
be ethereal so early in the morning. Wait till I've had 
a good dinner, and the moon is shining, and the band 
is playing ‘ ‘The Rosary, ” and a strand of her hair is blown 
across my cheek, and ” 


42 


HANDS OFF, AMERICA! 


4 ‘Don’t be so silly,” said Verity. “But now you 
remind me of it, I’m hungry, too.” She sniffed with 
her dainty nose. “Do I smell coffee, or 

“I hope you do,” returned George. “Come, let’s 
dive into the bowels of the ship and demand breakfast.” 

“Just one more walk round first, to give another edge 
to our appetite,” said Verity, taking his arm firmly. 

“Another edge!” He groaned. “I feel like a stone 
with a hundred facets. Verity, I won’t come on a voy- 
age with you again. Where’s your mother?” 

“Lying in bed.” 

“I wish I were.” 

“No, you don’t. Don’t pretend so. Isn’t it glori- 
ous?” 

It certainly was. The sun was shining over the water 
in all its early freshness and brilliance, turning it into 
a thing of enchantment. It was a golden morning, when 
even the most materialistic feel that there are other 
things in life than money and money-getting. It made 
one say irresistibly to oneself, “ ‘God’s in His Heaven, 
all’s right with the world.’ ” It was a morning when 
all petty thoughts and meannesses slipped away like 
mist before the sun. The fresh, pure air, untouched with 
smoke or grime, seemed to cleanse the heart and soul, to 
sweep the brain of its earthy cobwebs, to make the body 
taut and stronger. 

“Verity,” said George, after a pause, as they paced 
the deck, “I’m beginning to feel specky, too. Don’t be 
alarmed if you can’t see me soon. This is like a gigan- 
tic whitewash brush.” 

Just as they turned to go to breakfast, they almost 
ran into a little child, in a plaid dress, leaning on the 
rail and looking out to sea. She was very small, she 
could not have been more than six, but, as she turned 
her face to them, it was the face of an old woman. 

Verity paused, and the child gave her an odd little 
smile. It was sedate and rather grave, as though she felt 
that a smile was required of her by convention. 

43 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

‘‘Isn’t it a lovely morning?” said Verity. 

“Yes,” said the child, rather wearily, “I guess it’ll 
be a fine day. But it’s such a bore being on a ship, 
isn’t it?” 

Verity stared at her. “A bore!” 

“Ah! maybe it’s your first trip? Yes, I thought so. 
I’ve been backward and forward five times. It’s no 
novelty to me. ’ ’ 

Verity smothered a desire to laugh. The child was 
so small and so weary. There was no one in sight who 
seemed to be with her. 

“You’re not alone?” said George, kindly. 

She shook her head. “Mommer and — her husband 
are down below. I’m with nurse, but she says she’s 
going to be seasick soon. I’m rather in the way,” she 
added, “because my mommer’s on her honeymoon trip, 
and I guess it is rather a noosance to have a child about.” 

“On her honeymoon!” echoed Verity, with a puzzled 

air. 

“Yes,” said the child, patiently explaining, “you 
see her noo husband isn’t my father. She divoreed my 
father. My father was Thomas B. Coddington, of Chi- 
cago. I’m sorry mommer divorced him, cos I liked 
him.” 

She said it quite as calmly as she might have talked 
of her cat or her doll. Verity opened her eyes in aston- 
ishment. 

“Will you come for a walk with us, Miss Codding- 
ton?” said George, holding out his hand. 

She looked up doubtfully. ‘‘I guess you don’t really 
want me?” she said. There was a faint note in the 
voice that told them she was accustomed to “not being 
wanted.” It was rather pathetic in so wee a mite. 

“Yes, we do want you,” said George, heartily, 
“don’t we, Verity?” 

“Very much. Do come for a walk before breakfast. ” 

“Thank you,” she said, “I’ll be happy to come.” 
She slipped her hand into George Bradley’s, and they 

44 


HANDS OFF, AMERICA! 


continued their tramp round the deck. They asked her 
one or two questions, and presently she asked their ad- 
vice. 

“Say,” she said — she evidently did not belong to a 
very cultured class — “what would you call mommer’s 
husband if you were me? He says I ought to call him 
poppa, but then Fve got a real poppa in Chicago. What 
shall I call him, eh?” 

“Well, it’s rather a puzzle, isn’t it?” said George. 
“Perhaps you could call him father, and the other one 
poppa. ’ 9 

“Maybe that would be best,” she said, sagely. 
“Maybe I should do that. IT1 think it over.” 

Just then a sharp, alert man, with a bustling manner 
and a rather aggressive voice, hailed her. 

“Hallo, nipper! Been making friends, eh? Early 
morning flirtation?” 

“That’s my mommer’s husband,” explained the child. 
“I guess I’d better go now. My name is Margarita, but 
I’m usually called Trottie, but if you wouldn’t mind call- 
ing me Margarita, I’d like it better.” 

“Good-morning, Margarita,” said George, “we shall 
meet again.” 

She went up to the man in the companion-way, who 
was yawning and picking his teeth. He chucked her 
under the chin, and throwing her up in the air, bestowed 
a resounding kiss on her. She bore it patiently, but she 
was clearly bored to death with the man who was mom- 
mer’s husband. 

“Now we’ll have coffee,” said George. 

In the dining-room, its tables set with quantities of 
flowers, they found Holt Vicary. He had maneuvered a 
seat at their table next to Verity, whom he now saluted 
heartily. 

“Fit as a fiddle, I know you are,” he said. “Sha’n’t 
ask you.” 

“Isn’t it delightful,” said Verity, “to have a sort of 
moving dining-room? Instead of lifeless oil paintings 

45 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


that stare at you at every meal, you see blue sky through 
the portholes. Big patches of blue all round you ! ’ ’ 

Vicary nodded between mouthfuls of porridge. “I 
know. I have my meals opposite tiresome old aunts — in 
frames, I mean — and I get so sick of them. When I 
marry, I shall have a dining-room where all the pictures 
are changed twice a week. I think I should digest my 
food better. I am sure the aunts sometimes give me 
indigestion.’ ’ 

“Better be like the Japanese,” said George, “have 
one picture in a room and have it changed now and then. 
We crowd far too much on our walls. I counted twenty- 
five on a small wall the other day, and they were not even 
of one period or one style. We collect our pictures by 
the dozen nowadays. I wonder the dealers don’t offer a 
reduction on a quantity.” 

Just then Philippa joined them. The people around 
looked up and watched her as she came in. Somehow 
she was the sort of woman who always attracts attention 
on entering a room. 

She cast a quick, startled glance at Verity’s head, 
which was in close proximity to Vicary’s. They were 
gluttonishly studying the menu, which was long and 
varied. George saw her look, and a smile puckered 
the corners of his mouth. Philippa had a difficult task 
before her! She ought to put a label on Verity: “Hands 
off, America!” The situation had its comic side, but 
George realized that Philippa could hardly be expected 
to see this. Philippa was a charming woman, but life 
had conspired with her temperament rather to swamp 
her sense of humor. This was a pity, because, to a 
woman especially, a sense of humor is an absolute neces- 
sity, if she is to have a decent time in this life. A sense 
of humor is better than a pair of rose-colored spectacles. 
It does not put the gilt on the gingerbread, but it pre- 
vents a woman from fretting it off. It does not neces- 
sarily make of all life a joke, but it softens the hard 
edges. It keeps her from undue and foolish sentimentality 

46 


HANDS OFF, AMERICA! 

as well as cold-blooded cynicism — it is like a fire in win- 
ter, and like the snn in summer. 

Close behind Philippa came Mr. Vicary, senior, who 
was the head of the great El Morando Mining Company, 
and who was also crossing for his daughter’s wedding. 
Verity thought he was grayer and more tired-looking 
than any man she had ever seen. He had a continual air 
of preoccupation, even when he was deep in argument. 
His only relaxation was playing patience, which he did 
every day for an hour before and after dinner. Even on 
the boat he was very little seen, for he had his secretary 
with him, and they were closeted together all day. He 
ate very little, and seemed not to trouble what he ate. 
He would frequently tell his son to order for him. He 
consumed his food very rapidly, with no relish or enjoy- 
ment. He sat down at their table now, and ordered 
coffee and a boiled egg. 

“Had a good night?” said Holt Vicary to Philippa. 

“Not particularly,” she said. “I had the annoying 
experience of listening to Verity’s peaceful breathing 
most of the night. There are so many noises on board 
ship that one is not accustomed to, and it was rather 
windy last night.” She looked across at Vicary pbre. 
“Did you sleep well?” 

“Oh! yes,” he replied. “I trained myself not to 
take any notice of extraneous circumstances and noises 
years ago. If I had not I should have been dead by now. 
lean sleep in a railway train as well as in my bed.” 

“I envy you,” said Philippa. “I am always being 
fidgeted with things.” 

“Train yourself not to be,” said Mr. Vicary, quietly. 
“It is merely a matter of will-power and habit. As a 
boy I used to be a great admirer of Napoleon, and I was 
very much struck with his power of, as it were, switch- 
ing off his business when he wanted to. I saw that he 
could never have done what he did, if he had not taken 
those complete rests occasionally. I determined to copy 
him. And after a bit, by force of habit, I made my 

47 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


mind obey the switches of my will. As I turn off the 
electric light at night when I want to go to sleep, I now 
switch off my sensitiveness to outside impressions or 
business worries. ’ ’ 

Verity was listening with great interest. 4 ‘But I like 
to lie awake sometimes and think things over,” she said. 
“It is such a cozy time to think, when you are nice and 
warm in bed. I shouldn’t like to think of my brain as 
if it were an engine.” 

“You are very young, my child,” said Mr. Vicary, 
attacking his egg. “You are to be envied.” 

“Would you like to be my age again?” said Verity, 
impulsively. 

Mr. Vicary shook his head with a slight smile. “No, 
I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t like to begin the fight all over 
again.” 

Then there bustled in, with rather unnecessary fuss, 
two women who were attached to the Vicary party, and 
whom Philippa did not much like. These were cousins 
of the Vicarys, Mrs. Miller and her daughter Beatrice. 
They were also going to the wedding. Beatrice Miller 
was about Verity’s age, but she seemed much older; she 
might well have been five-and-twenty. She was a big, 
well-developed girl, with the assurance of a woman. 
Beatrice was inclined to patronize Verity because of her 
youthfulness of mind, but was respectful, on account of 
Verity’s great wealth. For the Millers were not at all well 
off. Mrs. Miller, after having divorced two husbands, 
had lost most of her income in the San Francisco earth- 
quake, and since then her means had been straitened. 
She had a tight mouth and calculating eyes, and the 
only one for whom she seemed to have any affection or 
sentiment was her daughter. 

The conversation became general, and as intellectual 
as it usually is at breakfast-time. Holt was very busy 
looking after Verity’s and Philippa’s wants, chatting 
amiably the while. 

“Soon all your family will be living in Europe,” said 
48 


HANDS OFF, AMERICA! 


Mrs. Miller to Vicary, who was rapidly finishing his 
breakfast. “Your wife practically lives in Paris, .Flor- 
ence has married a German and lives in Berlin, and now 
Evangeline is going to marry and settle in England.’' 

“It’s a dreadful habit Americans have got into,’’ said 
George, who had been mildly flirting with Miss Miller. 
“We shall have to stop this emigration soon. We shall 
have to get up a giant protest and appeal to the women 
of America, eh, Holt?’’ 

“Yes, it’s a beastly shame. You won’t go and desert 
us, will you, Miss Marlowe?” 

“No,” said Verity, instantly, “lam very patriotic.” 

“You haven’t had a London season yet,” said Mrs. 
Miller. “I confess I prefer England to America. In 
America we are still in a state of chaos, of transition, the 
landmarks are always shifting; but in England all the ex- 
perimental stages are over. And life there is more com- 
fortable, especially for a woman like myself, with a small 
income. I get my clothes in Paris and I live in London, 
and I do much better than I could in the States, unless I 
buried myself. Whenever I take a trip to New York, I 
return to London, sure that it is the best place to live.” 

“Shame!” cried Holt. “Treason, rank treason; we 
won’t hear it, will we, Miss Marlowe? Having eaten all 
we can with decency and comfort, let’s leave them and 
go on deck. We will sprawl in our chairs and pretend 
to read, but in reality we will read the passengers. I 
can point out some people with queer stories. Say, have 
you seen Mrs. Tom Williamson? She’s crossing over with 
her third husband, and his daughter by his first wife has 
married her second husband. Bit complicated, isn’t it? 
but they’re all on this boat together.” 

“I think it’s bad form to get mixed up like that,” 
said Mrs. Miller. “It seems so careless.” 

Verity laughed, and she and Holt went off together 
up the crowded room, for the boat was full to overflowing 
with the annual migration to Europe. 

Mrs. Miller looked after them shrewdly. “She’s go- 
5 49 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


ing to be very taking and a success, I should think. Are 
you going to marry her to a title?” 

Philippa’s brows contracted a little. '‘I want her to 
see Europe,” she said, evasively. “It is part of a girl’s 
education.” 

Mrs. Miller nodded. “Not so many good partis as 
there were; still there are always a few in the market for 
a high bidder. And your daughter is not quite the ordi- 
nary type. I should say she’d go down better than most. 
Englishmen don’t like our girls on the whole — at least, 
not to marry. They’re afraid of them — yes, some devilled 
kidneys — and they won’t stand being ordered about and 
made to fetch and carry.” 

“Mommer’s right,” said Beatrice, regarding Phil- 
ippa’s shirt-waist with a critical eye, “I never saw any- 
thing like the way English women wait on the men. I’d 
like to dump all the men over in America, and leave them 
at the mercy of our women. If they weren’t so well- 
groomed and such awfully good style, one wouldn’t stand 
them for a moment. Somehow, an Englishman does know 
how to wear his clothes. Even when our men get the 
same clothes, they don’t wear them the right way. They 
always look brand new on them, whereas the Englishman 
looks as if he had worn the suit for weeks, the first day 
he puts it on. And their little neat ties, generally gray 
or black, and their unobtrusive waist-coats — oh! yes, the 
Englishman is a good dresser. But his antediluvian ideas 
about women are atrocious. Englishmen are still float- 
ing about in Noah’s ark.” 

Mrs. Miller attacked the devilled kidneys with an 
early morning appetite such as only grows on board ship. 
“Yes,” she said, “England is a man’s country all right. 
Everything is for the man. With us the man saves and 
the woman spends; in England the woman saves and the 
man spends. Evangeline Vicary is making a good match. 
She’s marrying Viscount Overton, Lord Finborough’s eld- 
est son. But Evangeline always got what she wanted, 
even as a child. She’s the sort that marries a man be- 

50 


HANDS OFF, AMERICA! 


for he even knows her first name. She did think of 
marrying a French prince with a pedigree as long as a 
comet’s tail, but she thought he didn’t look healthy, and 
she wants to have healthy children. She has any amount 
of horse sense, has Evangeline, but not as much senti- 
ment as would go on a pin’s point. There’s nothing like 
an English title after all; the foreign ones always sound 
a little tinselly and stagey, and their chateaux are gener- 
ally very moldy. Mamie Parker married a German of 
the most exalted family, but his stolidity and sense of his 
own dignity sent her crazy in the space of two years; and 
Sadie Adams’s Italian count playfully stabbed her with a 
stiletto because she wouldn’t give him all the money he 
wanted for his mistress. Oh! there’s no doubt the Eng- 
lish coronet is the best. And your daughter is considerable 
of an heiress, isn’t she?” 

“If I thought Verity would be married for her money, 
I would never ” 

“The Englishman will never tell her so,” said Bea- 
trice, sarcastically; “he is most sensitive about it. He 
hates the idea of marrying money even while he does it. 
He always pretends it is love in a cottage, and all the 
time he is carefully inquiring the size of her fortune. He 
floats in a bath of sentiment, but his feet touch bottom 
all right. Oh! the Englishman never gives his wife an 
unpleasant shock in asking for money; she has to be care- 
ful not to hurt his feelings in making him an allowance. 
There goes Mrs. Jackson Moule. She’s going to be one 
of the London hostesses this season. She’s in with every- 
body, and they say she gives the most sumptuous enter- 
tainments. It’s only people like Mrs. Moule that enter- 
tain royally; the real royalties don’t give you enough to 
eat.” 

Philippa looked up at the vivacious, capable-looking 
woman who had just passed. Mrs. Moule, she knew, 
was always in Europe, while her husband toiled in Chi- 
cago. He had once gone over to London with her for a 
season, but he became so unhappy without his financial 

Si 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


toys that he had returned at the end of the month. Phil- 
ippa had got used to the varied classes of people on the 
boat, she had ceased to be astonished at some of the ec- 
centricities, voices, and “get up” of some of her country- 
women, and she had given up wondering why most of 
them made the trip at all. But one and all, they wore a 
fixed expression of determination. They were all deter- 
mined to have their money’s worth. 

Presently Philippa went up on deck, where she found 
Holt and Verity sitting in a sunny corner, chatting to- 
gether with every indication of a growing intimacy. 
Philippa, though not affected by the sea in the usual 
way, always suffered at the outset of a trip with severe 
headache, so she had spent most of her time below since 
the bo&t started. She looked at the couple, and a sense 
of dawning danger gathered in her eyes. Yes, some peo- 
ple might consider Holt Vicary an agreeable young man. 
To her he seemed rather young and irresponsible, but — so 
was Verity! 

She stood by the gangway, apparently looking at the 
green rolling waves, but she was thinking hard. A rose 
that is not to bloom should be nipped in the bud. Holt 
Vicary must be nipped. But how? 

The ship gave a lurch. When it had righted itself 
Philippa advanced toward the pair. Holt immediately 
jumped up and offered his chair. 

“No, thank you,” she said, with one of her most 
charming smiles, “I want to stroll about for a bit. I 
wonder if you would give me your arm? I haven’t got 
my sea legs on yet. Verity, dear, I wish you’d find 
George for me. ’ ’ 

Holt offered his arm with alacrity. It had not es- 
caped his notice that Mrs. Marlowe was a handsome 
woman, but until this moment she had seemed unaware 
of his existence. They mingled with the sauntering, 
chatting crowd. 

“This is really my first morning on deck. Isn’t it 
delightful? Let’s see if we know any mutual acquaint- 

52 


HANDS OFF, AMERICA! 


ances. That always seems such a nice sound basis for 
friendship. You have known my sister Susie for, some 
time? I don’t believe we ever met anywhere, did we?” 

Verity watched them go off with a certain amount of 
surprise. Her mother was not wont to be so gracious to 
a man on so short an acquaintance. Then she found that 
George Bradley had slipped into the vacant chair beside 
her. 

“Number one headed off,” said George, half to him- 
self, with an amused pucker of his mouth. 

“What did you say, Georgie Porgie? Oh! mother 
wanted me to find you.” 

“Did she? I dare say it wasn’t urgent. Did I ever 
tell you in any of my bursts of confidence how much I 
admire your sex? Women are born strategists. Under 
the present war conditions, they ought to make fine sol- 
diers. Seems a pity to let their talents in that direction 
have such small play.” 

“I thought men were better at things that demanded 
diplomacy and decision, and that women were apt to lose 
their heads.” 

The sea was a delicious green and the sky a heavenly 
blue, and Verity leaned back in her chair, filled with a 
sense of bien Ure that the defection of Vicary did not in 
anyway mar. 

“Don’t you believe it! Women carry on intrigues 
for the sake of the game, just as we men go on making 
money when we don’t need any more, and when, looking 
through a telescope, a woman espies a rock in her path — 
well, that rock had better look out for itself!” 

“Well,” said Verity lazily, only half listening, 
“there are no rocks on the Atlantic.” 

“Don’t you be too sure. They’re underneath the 
water all right, but some women can see to the bottom 
of the Atlantic. Women are wonderful creatures. Thank 
God for ’em and their funny little ways!” 


CHAPTER VI 


“a late blooming' ’ 

Trottie, otherwise Margarita Coddington, had devel- 
oped a doglike devotion to George Bradley, which, how- 
ever, did not inconvenience him, because he rather liked 
it. George was never bored with friendship or affection, 
and though he made distinctions as to quality, and had 
few people in his Holy of Holies, he did not disdain 
quantity. Trottie worshiped him in a queer, old-wom- 
anish fashion that demanded very little. She pattered 
along by his side in perfect content. She never talked 
unless he encouraged her; indeed, she had an habitual 
uncanny way of living in her own thoughts and with in- 
visible people. The honeymoon couple troubled them- 
selves as little about her as the Teddy Bear some kind- 
hearted but undiscerning friend had pressed on Margarita 
at parting. The child never uttered a word of complaint, 
which said more eloquently than words that she was used 
to this sort of treatment. George had a very soft spot 
in his heart for all children and animals, and he made a 
point of looking after her. She accepted his ministra- 
tions in a pleased, surprised fashion, like an old maid 
who has long been on the shelf, and has ceased to expect 
male attentions. Sometimes George found it irresistibly 
funny. 

But to-day Margarita put a question of her own ac- 
cord. She was perched up on a cushion, having tea with 
him in the saloon. 

4 ‘I guess you haven’t got any use for a little girl, 
have you?” she said, suddenly. 

54 


“A LATE BLOOMING” 


“I? Why, is this an offer?” 

“I think I should like to live with you,” she said, 
calmly. “I am learning to write quite nicely and spell 
real well. I could write your letters for you.” 

He looked at her and laughed. “But, my dear child, 
you have a mother.” 

“Yes, but she doesn’t need me. And her husband 
doesn’t like children. I heard him say so. He wanted 
to leave me behind in Chicago, but there was nobody for 
me to board with. Oh! they don’t need me. I guess 
you don’t either, but maybe I could learn to be useful.” 

George was distinctly embarrassed. He put too much 
milk in his tea. 

“Mind, look out,” said Margarita; “that’s the milk- 
jug, not the hot water. ’ ’ 

“But, Margarita,” said George, stopped in his mad 
career with the milk jug, “don’t you remember your 
own father, and don’t you — don’t you love your mother?” 

“Oh! yes, I liked my father,” she said, promptly, “I 
liked him real well. But mother didn’t like him very 
much. He wouldn’t give her all the frocks she wanted, 
and he wouldn’t buy her an automobile. But he often 
bought me things — candy and games.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to live with him?” suggested 
George, as a way out of the difficulty. 

“I’d rather live with you. But my father, he’s got 
a new wife now. Maybe she doesn’t like children either. 
I don’t think many people like children, do you?” She 
said it impartially, reflectively, stirring her tea quietly. 

“Oh! yes,” said George, heartily, “everybody likes 
children.” 

Margarita shook her small head. Her hair was drawn 
back tightly from her face, and tied in two little wispy 
plaits, one on each side of her head. She was a plain child, 
and nobody troubled to dress her to any advantage, though 
George had remarked that the mother was always hand- 
somely if somewhat flamboyantly dressed for shipboard. 
But the child’s dress was a drab gray, which only served 

55 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


to make her complexion more sallow than ever, and even 
the wispy plaits were tied up with the wrong shade of 
green ribbon. 

“And I’m not much trouble/ ’ she said, in extenua- 
tion of her offense of being a child, “I can do up most 
of my dress, all except one button in the middle. The 
button in the middle is such a trouble, isn’t it? And 
sometimes when nurse is in a hurry, I do my own hair, 
and,” hopefully, “I dare say I shall grow. I hate por- 
ridge, but I heard some one say it was good for growing 
little girls, so I hope it will grow me. I eat a lot every 
morning, but it’s real dull.” 

“I sympathize with you, Margarita. I never liked 
porridge myself.” 

“Yet you’re awful big and fine. ... It must be 
nice to be so as people. turn and look at you like they do 
Mrs. Marlowe. I’m awful homely; I never did see a more 
homely girl. My! when I look in mommer’s wardrobe, 
I get quite scared of myself. I say to myself, ‘Margarita 
Coddington, you are the plainest child I ever did see.’ 
Mommer says I take after popper, but I liked his face, 
specially when he made grimaces at me. ... I can hem 
and tuck real well. My teacher says I’m the best in the 
class. But maybe you don’t want any one to do tucking 
and hemming for you?” 

“Well, I haven’t much demand,” acknowledged 
George. 

“I don’t muss up the stuff like some of the girls do, 
and I can keep ’em quite straight all the way to the end. 

I guess you ought to be clever with your needle if you’re 
so homely. Girls that is pretty like your niece don’t 
need to do straight tucks, but I must be awful cute with 
my fingers. We’re going to land to-morrow, ain’t we? 
Gee, but I am sorry. I ain’t been bored one bit this trip 
sence I come across you. ’ ’ 

“Thank you, Margarita,” said George, gently. 
“We’ve had quite a nice little flirtation, haven’t we?” 

She gave a queer, unchild ish laugh and her eyes glit- 
56 


“A LATE BLOOMING” 


tered. “I do make believe sometimes to myself,” she 
said, confidentially, 4 ‘that you’re my beau.” 

Just then the mother of the child bustled up to them. 
Usually she took no notice of their friendship, but this 
afternoon, for some reason, possibly because her husband 
was in the smoking-room playing poker, she chose to in- 
terfere. 

‘Tm sure it’s awfully good of you to trouble with 
her,” she said, with what was meant to be an ingratiat- 
ing smile. Her voice, which was rough and nasal, set 
George’s teeth on edge, and she smelt of cheap perfume. 
She was a full-figured woman, with a sensual mouth. 
George could quite believe that Margarita took after her 
first husband. “I’m afraid she worries you a deal.” 

‘‘Oh! no,” said George, pleasantly, but with the re- 
serve that he could adopt on the right occasions, ‘‘we get 
on very well together. ’ ’ 

She looked him up and down with swift calculation. 
He was a ‘‘gentleman,” and he was with rich people. 

‘‘Of course, I adore children myself,” she said, gush- 
ingly, ‘‘but Silas — that’s my husband, Silas K. Turner, 
of Chicago — he says they get on his nerves. She’s an 
old-fashioned touch.” Then, with a giggle, ‘‘She doesn’t 
take after me. I was always known for my high spirits. ” 

‘ ‘Indeed ! ’ ’ remarked George, mildly. Margarita stood 
patiently by, till her mother should have finished. 

‘‘You know,” she said, dropping her voice more con- 
fidentially, * ‘children are rather a trouble when you marry 
again. You can’t expect a man to like another man’s 
children. I dare say I shall send her to school later on.” 
She held out a big red hand that matched her face. 
‘‘Now, come along, Trottie, and don’t worry the gentle- 
man any more. Come for a walk with me. ’ ’ 

She looked a tentative invitation at George, but 
George was looking abstractedly at the table cloth. He 
was regarding ‘‘quick change” marriages for the first 
time from the children’s point of view. He wondered 
that he had never thought of it before. The woman could 

57 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


take care of herself, so could the man, but how about 
the child? George was still thinking about it when 
Holt Vicary came and sat down beside him. 

“I say, Bradley, Mrs. Marlowe and I have discovered 
that we are distantly related. We’re sort of cousins.” 

“Are you? Then presumably you and I are on the 
same footing. Don’t fall on my neck and embrace me in 
public, will you?” 

“Yes, of course, you must be a cousin, too.” He 
was evidently more pleased at his relationship to Philippa. 
“We’ve discovered that one of my aunts married a Van 
Altman. Rather nice, isn’t it?” 

“A cousin has many privileges and no obligations,” 
said George, ‘ ‘and a pretty woman is just as pretty whether 
she be a cousin or not. But cousinship may cover a mul- 
titude of indiscretions. ’ ’ 

“By the bye,” laughed Holt, “do you know you are 
seriously compromising Margarita Coddington?” 

“Poor little soul! If I were a married man I’d have 
her to sew tucks for me.” 

“Tucks! Is that a new fashion in pyjamas? ... I 
want you to meet my sister Evangeline as soon as we get 
to London, and to know the Finboroughs. You’ll have to 
come to the wedding, too, being relations.” 

“I can see the relationship is going to be useful. 
When did your aunt marry a Van Altman? Yester- 
day?” 

“No, years ago. She is one of the aunts that gives 
me indigestion when I’m at home. ... Ah! Miss Mar- 
lowe, whom have you been flirting with?” 

“With Mr. Andrew Pearce,” returned Verity. “He’s 
so amusing, and he’s crossed eighty-two times. Think of 
that!” ' 

“He’s married!” said George, casting his eyes up to 
the ceiling. 

“I know. We’ve been reading Charles Dickens’s 
‘American Notes’ together. Do you know what a friend 
of Dickens said to him when he was contemplating com- 

58 


“A LATE BLOOMING” 


ing to see us? ‘Why, aren't there disagreeable people 
enough to describe in Blackburn or Leeds?' " 

“You don’t know how deadly the insult is,” said 
Holt. “I do. I’ve been to Leeds and Blackburn.” 

“Didn’t Dickens hate America?” continued Verity. 

“But I guess it was pretty uncomfortable in his day.” 

“Are you making up your mind to like London?” 
asked Holt. 

“Oh! yes. I am sure it will be most interesting. 
Grandfather had a lot of English books like ‘The Tower 
of London,’ and ‘The Chaplain of the Fleet,’ as well as all 
of Dickens’s novels, and I am just longing to see all those 
places. Mother has promised to let me go everywhere I 
want to, and I’ve got a long list of places already. Oh! 
dear, I sha’n’t know where to start. And then when 
we’ve done London, there’s Edinburgh — I must see the 
pipers and the castle above the town, and Loch Lomond 
and the Trossachs and the Kyles of Bute and— oh! we’re 
going to have such a nice time, Georgie Porgie.” 

“I see we’re going to have a strenuous time. But,” 
slyly, “here’s a new-found cousin, and he knows London 
well. I’ve forgotten it.” 

“Oh! Mr. Vicary can take mother to do all the easy 
bits,” said Verity, carelessly, “but we’ll dig and delve 
and grub about on our own. I’m going on deck; there’s 
going to be a lovely sunset.” 

She flitted off, humming gaily to herself. 

“Young girls have a deuce of a lot of energy, haven’t 
they?” said Holt. 

George smiled. The patronizing way he called Verity 
a young girl showed very plainly her place in his esti- 
mation. He had been most successfully headed off, and 
somehow Philippa had cleverly managed that no one 
man since should monopolize Verity’s attention. 

It was so long since Philippa had exerted herself spe- 
cially to please a man that the ensnaring of Holt Vicary 
had all the charm of novelty, and with affairs of the heart 
novelty plays as large a part as propinquity. The woman 

59 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


whose curiosity is aroused is half won. It had been an 
easy task to detach him from Verity, and with a sort of 
studied amusement she had devoted herself to keeping 
him at her side for the rest of the voyage. She realized 
the dangers of crossing the Atlantic: the long sunny hours 
with nothing to do but talk nonsense, the moonlight 
strolls, the very ample meals, the universal sentiment 
that hangs about a ship, and makes attachments spring 
up so easily. Philippa did not intend that Verity should 
slip into anything, because if she ever gave a half prom- 
ise to any one she would feel bound in loyalty to stick 
to it. She had no idea of coercing Verity into any mar- 
riage, but she wanted her to see the whole of life's shop- 
window before she made a choice. At present Verity’s 
thoughts did not turn manwards; she was looking for- 
ward to her visit to England, mainly because her head 
was full of its literary and historic associations and 
memories. 

When Philippa looked at Verity, heedless of her pre- 
destined matrimonial fate, she felt like a woman who has 
staked heavily on a horse in a race. The horse could not 
be expected to know that it bore such a heavy stake, and 
Philippa did not want it to know; but even though it 
stood no earthly chance of winning, Philippa wanted to 
see the horse have a run for her money. 

She had what George called “headed off” Holt Vicary. 
For the moment any danger from that direction seemed 
removed. And she found the badinage and repartee 
between herself and Holt not unamusing. For the first 
time she felt a spirit of — was it coquetry? — awake in 
her. She felt more light-hearted than she had done for 
years. Perhaps it was the exhilarating air, the golden 
sunshine, the general feeling of laissez faire ; but she felt 
very young that trip, as she leant over the sides of the 
vessel with Holt Vicary. Sometimes the look in Holt’s 
eyes made her feel almost shy, although she tried to pre- 
tend to herself that it was merely awkwardness and lack 
of practice at the game. 


60 


“A LATE BLOOMING” 


“Heavens!” she said to herself, “suppose I should 
wake up now and behave like a silly schoolgirl! How 
appalling! How horribly undignified ! Humpty Dumpty’s 
fall would be nothing to mine.” 

And yet it was difficult for Holt to remember, as he 
stood beside her, that she was Verity’s mother. Her eyes 
had the unawakened, virginal look of the young woman 
who has been merely a looker-on at life, who has never 
tasted of the tree of knowledge. 

“Are you sure you are Verity’s mother?” he said one 
day abruptly, as they were nearing Kingstown Harbor. 

Philippa raised her eyebrows. 

“I mean, you seem so much more like her sister.” 

“Thank you,” said Philippa, lightly. “I take that as 
a great compliment at my advanced age.” 

The voyage was nearly at an end. She determined to 
remind herself — and him — of her thirty-seven years. 

“You were married very young.” 

“At eighteen.” 

He looked at her intently. “Tell me, does a woman, 
or rather a girl of eighteen, know what she wants? Is 
she capable of choosing a life partner?” 

This was a leading question. Philippa evaded it. 
“She thinks she is.” 

“And what does she think later on?” He had a quiet 
persistence that she had already remarked. 

She had lightly detached him from Verity, and yet 
she felt he was not a man that would be easily detached 
from anything he desired to cling to. And somehow, on 
acquaintance, he did not seem so boyish — or was she 
getting younger? 

“It’s better for her not to think at all. When she 
starts out to do some thinking unaided by convention and 
copy-books — then the trouble begins. If a woman mar- 
ries very early she should just live, not think.” She 
spoke carelessly, but there was an undercurrent to her 
words. 

“There’s a proverb,” he remarked, “that says, ‘Once 
61 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


bit, twice shy/ but it seems to me that once you've been 
bitten you know the sort of dog that's likely to bite you 
—what?" 

"All dogs are likely to bite. They don’t all foam at 
the mouth and make savage noises before they snap." 

"You're hard on — dogs," he replied, smiling. "You 
don’t like men?" 

"I never said so." 

"You are profoundly distrustful of them. You have 
made yourself believe that you can live without them." 

"Made myself believe?" said Philippa, indignantly, 
looking into his cool face. 

"It's only make-believe, and you know it. No woman 
can have lived without a man in her life." 

"I have been married," said Philippa, distantly. 

"Happiness doesn’t always come at the sound of the 
wedding-bells, and love doesn't always fill your heart, 
even when you beckon to it. Rashness is the mother of 
regrets, and most girls of eighteen are rash. But — eigh- 
teen years is a long time to nurse a disappointment. I 
don’t think much of your courage." 

"Foolhardiness is not necessarily courage, " she re- 
torted. 

They had strolled along until they were looking down 
upon the steerage passengers. They were mostly for- 
eigners, and they were sprawling about in the late 
afternoon sun with a sensuous enjoyment and pleasure. 
As they watched them, a young dark-eyed Italian crossed 
over to where a young girl sat on a pile of rope. She 
looked up at him with an enveloping smile, and he 
dropped down beside her with a few words which seemed 
by the expression of his face to be a caress. His arm 
went round her, and she instantly curled herself up into 
the hollow of his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. 
It was done very simply and naturally, as though it were 
her rightful place and she was sure of it. 

At the sight something stabbed at Philippa’s heart. 
She suddenly caught a glimpse of what such dependence 

62 


‘‘A LATE BLOOMING” 

might be, what happiness it might be to lie so in the 
hollow of a man’s arm. Something stirred in her bos’om 
like a caged bird and struggled for freedom. Suddenly 
she felt unutterably lonely and aloof. In a panic she 
wondered what she had been doing with the years that 
were past. Why had her womanhood remained buried all 
these years, only to rise now in her Indian summer? 

Then she heard Verity’s ringing laugh behind her. 

“Mother, are you letting Mr. Vicary talk about him- 
self? ” 

“About himself? Why?” 

“Because it’s very late, and you won’t have any time 
to dress for dinner. I thought perhaps you couldn’t get 
away from him. Don’t you know the story of the six 
women who, before starting out to a dinner-party, agreed 
that each should draw out the man next to her on the 
subject of himself ? They all agreed to listen as long as 
he would talk.” 

“What happened?” inquired Holt. “Men never talk 
about themselves, unless they are forced to do so.” 

“Listen. The first woman stuck at the job, crawling 
home utterly exhausted at sunrise, the second woman 
stayed with her partner till she was stone deaf, the third 
was captured after many days, a raving lunatic, the fourth 
committed suicide, the fifth has never been heard from, 
and the sixth is listening yet! . . . No, I was careful to 
see you had nothing to throw at me!” 


CHAPTER VII 


“burford’s reward * * 

Cora’s brother found her seated in the most luxurious 
chair in the room, her feet on a footstool, cushions be- 
hind her very straight back, a purple-covered book of 
devotions in her hands. It was the fourth Friday in 
Lent, and Lady Finborough religiously observed Lent 
just to the verge of discomfort, and there she stopped. 
Occasionally she pushed other people over, but for herself 
she did not believe in mortifying the flesh too greatly. 

Her religion was not the inner life of Lady Finbor- 
ough; it was the outer. Her inner life was of the most 
worldly description possible. Her thoughts were entirely 
concerned with the pomps and vanities of this wicked 
world, and the handling to the best advantage of as much 
filthy lucre as she could lay her hands on. At the age of 
sixty, she had definitely shed any little sentiment she had 
ever possessed— -it was not worth mentioning— and having 
outlived a good many desires of young flesh which some 
time masquerade under the name of love, she regarded le 
grand passion and all its manifestations as mere foolish- 
ness and waste of time. 

She was well known in society as a “lady with a 
Past , 9 ’ but a past of an aristocratic kind, associated with 
big names and great houses. There had never been any- 
thing of the adventuress about her, for adventuresses are 
always of low degree. The third daughter of Sir Leon- 
ard Rees, she was closely connected with some of the most 
aristocratic and exclusive families in England, and in the 
way of social prestige she had nothing to acquire. If 
64 


“BURFORD'S REWARD 0 


her past from a moral point of view was not unimpeach- 
able, from a worldly point of view it was quite distin- 
guished. She had been a handsome woman in her young 
days, and the toast of her county. She was still good- 
looking, but the softness of youth having departed from 
her face like the leaves from a tree, her character, in all 
its shrewdness and worldliness, showed too plainly for 
beauty. She had been a managing, headstrong girl who 
had bent all and sundry to her will; and she was now a 
managing, autocratic, middle-aged woman who ruled her 
three children with the proverbial iron hand, but a hand 
clothed outwardly in the soft glove of religion. 

As one may paint a few gentle flowers on the sur- 
face of an iron tray, she cultivated a veil of religion over 
all her doings. Whether she thought it a becoming veil, 
or whether she had some vague ideas of cheating God, no 
one could tell; but as her brother, Sir Burford Rees, was 
announced, she looked up at him over the purple-bound 
book of devotions. 

“You spend a lot of money at your tailor's , 0 she said, 
sharply, closing the book at a passage that exhorted her 
to let her mind soar above mundane matters. 

“No, I don’t , 0 said Burford, lazily, “because I’ve no 
money to spend. He spends a lot of money on me. I 
often think he must be truly religious. He clothes the 
poor.” 

The tailor, whether from a charitable prompting or 
from something more commercial, always turned out Bur- 
ford Rees extremely well. He was accounted one of the 
best dressed men in society, and yet he never seemed to 
take the least trouble over his attire. It always appeared 
as though he had by a lucky chance put on a waistcoat 
that matched his suit, and a tie that happened to match 
his waistcoat, and most of all a body that went well 
with everything. Perhaps the fact that Burford Rees 
had a very well set-up, athletic figure, and an innate feel* 
ing for the right thing artistically, may have had some- 
thing to do with it. 

6 


65 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“I never buy any new clothes in Lent,” said Lady 
Finborough, devoutly. 

“No? How busy you must be before and after! 
Now I always do things in moderation. What’s that old 
purple Johnny in your lap? Let me look at it. Is it 
‘How to be Pious Though Rich, or How the Camel got 
Through the Eye of the Needle’? ” 

“Don’t scoff at religion, Burford. I object to such 
talk.” 

“I am not scoffing. Only the Bible is awfully dis- 
couraging to rich people. As a kiddie I used to feel so 
sorry for them. I thought it was hard luck to be born 
rich. People cry out nowadays that we study the poor 
too much. It seems to me that they were always stud- 
ied, even by God.” 

He sighed pathetically, and flicked a speck of dust off 
his trousers. 

“That’s perfectly true,” said his sister, approvingly, 
“and you know I don’t approve of this pampering of the 
poor. I like people kept in their place.” 

“Do you think there will be a servants’ hall or any 
tradespeople in heaven, Cora?” said Burford, reflectively. 
“I know there will be no marrying or giving in marriage 
— there are points about that — but what I want to know 
is, will there be any barbers? I can’t, and I never 
could, shave myself!” 

“Burford, I sent for you to-day for two reasons,” 
said his sister, taking no notice of his facetious remarks. 
“I particularly wanted to have a talk with you.” 

“I didn’t assume that you sent for me to admire my 
tailor’s handiwork.” 

“First of all, I want you to have a talk with Charles. ” 

“The happy bridegroom! Can he tear himself away 
from Evangeline? Or, rather, will she let him tear him- 
self away?” 

“He’s behaving very badly,” continued the bride- 
groom’s mother, with an expression of annoyance. “I’ve 
taken all the trouble about the wedding. I found Evan- 

66 


“ BURFORD ’S REWARD” 


geline Vicary for him. Fve fixed up everything most 
comfortably and — and ” 

“And he isn’t duly grateful?” said Burford, dryly, fix- 
ing in an eyeglass and opening the Purple Devotions. 
“Blessed is she who marries her son to a rich American 
heiress. Her reward is in heaven.” 

“Has he been saying anything to you?” 

“No, my dear Cora, Charles is not a communicative 
person. But I saw him at the Carlton the other night 
with the vivacious Evangeline, and I thought he looked — 
well — sulky.” 

“I know,” she said, sharply. “He is behaving very 
badly. I want you to take him to task about it.” 

“I? I! Why don’t you do that little job yourself, or 
get his father to? What right have I got to interfere?” 

“His father is no good,” said his loving wife; “he 
thinks of nothing but aeroplanes; and at his age they 
will probably kill him. And I want you to talk to him 
as man to — er — man. You might remind him that he 
ought to be a bit more sprightly, that he is little better 
than a well-to-do pauper, and that Evangeline’s fortune 
will be a godsend. Do shake some sense into him, Bur- 
ford. You know this marriage is the best thing that 
could happen to him. Make him see it.” 

“Cora, I might as well have had children of my own 
to worry me, as have to take my nephews to task. Charles 
doesn’t respect me or my opinions. I never have come 
the pious uncle over him.” 

“He does respect you. He respects you because you 
can hold your own, and because you know your way 
about. All young men admire the man who has seen life. ’ ’ 

“I object,” said Burford, with a laugh. “In the first 
place, I strongly object to the past tense— may I remind 
you I am only thirty-eight?— and also as regards the slur 
contained in your remark — you merely draw on your 
imagination, good sister. I live like other men, thank 
God; but don’t tell me I do anything so bourgeois as ‘see 
life.’ Pooh! it’s disgustingly offensive.” 

67 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“And as a reward for you, Burford, I have got a wife 
for you.” 

“I don’t want one,” said Burford. “I prefer to live 
as they live in Heaven.” He was guilty of a small wink 
at the ceiling. 

“Nonsense, it’s time you settled down. It says in 
the Bible that man was not meant to live alone.” 

“But I didn’t say that I — er — your mind does jump to 
ridiculous conclusions, Cora.” 

“She’s the very thing for you. She’s richer than 
Evangeline Vicary, and she’s younger.” 

“Not another American? No, I will not be managed 
by a Yankee wife. I utterly refuse, even if she has the 
wealth of Croesus. ’ ’ 

“She isn’t that sort of American,” explained his sis- 
ter impatiently, rearranging her wonderful toupee, “she 
is quite charming and very pretty.” 

“I wouldn’t marry her for anything. She would be 
much too ‘bright and early’ for me. Think of my poor 
brain wearily tagging after a clever American woman. 
It would be a pathetic spectacle, wouldn’t it, Cora?” 

“She isn’t like Evangeline one bit. She’s really more 
like an English girl, except that she has a funny way of 
accenting a few words, and running up instead of down 
at the end of a sentence. Well, she is half English. 
Her grandfather was English and settled in New York, 
and his son married an American. She’s a handsome 
woman, is Mrs. Marlowe.” 

“Oh! is the name Marlowe? Holt Vicary was talking 
about some people of that name the other night.” 

“The girl’s name is Verity Marlowe.” 

“Verity — truth — it sounds like an earnest and soulful 
person. No, thank you, I don’t think it tempts me.” 

“You’re dreadfully in debt, Burford.” 

“I am,” said her brother, cheerfully. “All the best 
people are. I could paper the whole of Lyndhurst with 
my bills.” 

“Lyndhurst badly wants money spent on it,” went on 
68 


“BURFORD’S REWARD” 


Lady Finborough, relentlessly. “The last time I motored 
over I was shocked. It was bad enough in father’s time, 
goodness knows, but it is going to rack and ruin now. 
It’s a shame to let an historic place like that fall to 
pieces. It’s one of the most interesting houses in Eng- 
land.” 

A subtle change passed over the serene face of Bur- 
ford Rees. He turned his head away, and looked at a 
charming Lancret on the wall beside him with an air of 
great attention. 

“Delightful little piece that, Cora. I’d like to buy it 
from you. ... Yes, Lyndhurst does want some money 
spent on it, damn it. But I never have a penny to spare, 
and little bits don’t seem to be of much good. I got an 
architect chap I know to go down and look at it the other 
day. He says it wants a cool twenty thousand spent on 
it to make it really decent, and put it on its legs again. 
These old places cost a pot of money to keep up. ’ ’ 

“Of course they do. That’s why Americans are such 
a blessing. I think we ought to worship Christopher Co- 
lumbus as a saint. I do really. Do you think I should 
have urged on this marriage with Evangeline Vicary, 
although she is a nice girl enough, if it hadn’t been for 
Finborough’s place being in much the same state as Lynd- 
hurst? We’ve arranged to put the young couple in pos- 
session of it, and just keep this town house and the Scotch 
place on for ourselves. None of us can afford to keep 
these places up nowadays, what with land taxes and gene- 
ral muddlement. Look at the army of servants we keep 
at Finborough Castle. It’s outrageous, but all the ar- 
rangements are so old-fashioned and ridiculous that we 
must do it. It was built for the days when you gave 
servants little more than their keep, and bunches of them 
didn’t cost you what a good chef does nowadays. It’s all 
very well for people to exclaim, ‘Oh! what dear old 
places’ — they are dear old places.” 

Her brother nodded carelessly, but she knew him well 
enough to know that he was thinking over what she was 

69 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


saying. Burford never looked keen over anything; but 
he sometimes did some quick calculations behind those 
rather bored blue eyes. 

“You have quite rightly refused to sell Lyndhurst. 
Oh, yes, I know how you feel about it, and I should like 
to see it kept in the family — only, my dear Burford, it 
will not be kept in the family for long, except as a ruin, 
a picturesque ruin. Apparently you didn't seem to find 
letting very satisfactory 99 

“Well, all I got for it went in doing urgent repairs 
and keeping the stones together. Of course, the archi- 
tect was right. It's got to the point when more patching 
up is useless. It wants a thorough overhauling." 

“Well, do it with Verity Marlowe's money. She’ll 
look very pretty in it. She's a little slip of a thing, with 
wonderful eyes." 

“Don’t tell me she’s an airy-fairy-Lilian," drawled 
Burford, with a gesture of distaste. “That will put me 
off irrevocably." 

“See her for yourself. Come to-morrow to dinner. 
I've asked her and her mother, and one or two of the fam- 
ily." She looked up as the butler announced that lunch 
was served. “Now we’ll go and have some lunch. It’s 
a fish lunch, Burford, because it’s Lent, but I’ve got your 
favorite trout and plovers’ eggs. And cook makes a 
really wonderful omelet with mushrooms— it’s an effort 
of genius." 

“Spartan fare! "said Burford. “Don’t fast too much, 
will you, Cora? Do remember at your age " 

I haven’t reached it," said his sister, sharply. 
“But I shall by the time I have married you all off. I 
am the only person with common sense in the two 
families." 

“Common sense, like virtue, is its own reward," said 
her brother, “but unlike some one’s cocoa, it is not grate- 
ful or comforting. ’ ’ 

Lady Finborough gave an exasperated little snort as 
she went down the stairs. Just then a tall, well-dressed 

70 


“BURFORD’S REWARD” 


girl came out of the study on the ground floor, followed 
by a young man whose face bore an expression of reluc- 
tant resignation, if not exactly of sulkiness. It was the 
heir of the Finboroughs, Viscount Overton, affianced to 
Evangeline Vicary. Charles was quite good-looking, in a 
curious way. But the face was the face of an ascetic. 
The thin lines of the well-cut lips betokened a great ca- 
pacity for self-repression and mortification. The eyes 
were those of a man who by nature cares little for the 
opposite sex. The young woman was talking eagerly and 
very quickly. Her voice was rather high-pitched, and the 
pace at which she talked seemed too much for Charles’s 
nerves. He listened with a slight frown, as though it 
were an effort to follow her quick brain. 

“Oh! how do you do, Sir Burford?” In her greeting 
was a certain degree of liking and admiration. She 
often wished that her Charles was as smart as his uncle. 
”1 heard you won a pot of money at the races yesterday.” 

“Didn’t do so badly, but I lost a thundering lot at 
bridge last night. I never could keep money. ’ ’ 

Lady Finborough cast a reproving glance at him. “I 
disapprove of racing, and so does the Church. Canon 
Barret preached a most eloquent sermon against it the 
other day. I wish you could have heard him.” 

“Clergymen, like suffragettes, always waste their am- 
munition on the converted. What’s the good of preach- 
ing an eloquent sermon on the evils of horse-racing to a 
handful of pious old maids who don’t know a thorough- 
bred from a cart-horse? They never bet more than six- 
pence in their lives.” He looked at his sister with a 
slow smile. “Once upon a time, Cora, you always used 
to have a little bit on all the big events. I remember, 
because you used to get me to put it on, and you never 
paid me when you lost. I think it would be a good 
thing if women didn’t bet.” 

“I was unregenerate in those days,” said Lady Fin- 
borough, piously, folding her hands together for grace, 
which she delivered in a solemn voice. Then more 

71 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


briskly, “This is special caviare, Burford. Tell me what 
you think of it.” 

“If sin has a taste I think it must be like caviare,” 
said Burford, applying himself to it, “acrid, tantalizing, 
bitter, lingering, and wonderfully fascinating. Yes, this 
is excellent. Usually the caviare one gets out of Russia 
is stale. I'll have a little more, to show I approve of fish 
on Fridays. Have you been riding this morning, Miss 
Vicary?” 

“Yes, but Rotten Row is so tame. I like riding in 
Central Park better.” 

“Rotten Row is historic,” said Lady Finborough. 

“I know, but it’s so cramped. I suppose it’s crowded 
out with memories. I want a bigger space to ride in.” 

“Well, you can’t expect to find a prairie or a veldt in 
the middle of London,” said Burford, good-humoredly. 
“You might take her out to Hampstead Heath, Charles.” 

“Is it smart, Hampstead Heath?” she inquired. 

“Well, no, it is not the rendezvous of the great ladies 
of the land. But it is a big sweep of open heath, and it 
might suit your requirements.” 

But Evangeline Vicary looked uninterested. 

“Holt was riding with Mrs. Marlowe this morning. 
She looks awfully well on horseback, I must say. Didn’t 
you think so, Charles?” 

Charles nodded. He was evidently not in a talkative 
mood, but he never was with Evangeline. 

“But she has the reputation of being a very cold 
woman. She has no animation. I don’t like that, do 
you?” 

Lady Finborough, who occasionally found her pros- 
pective daughter-in-law too animated, lifted her eye- 
brows slightly. They were still dark and thick. 

“There is a happy medium between the Venus de Milo 
and a Jack-in-the-Box,” she said, dryly. “It often seems 
to me that the present-day woman has forgotten how to 
be reposeful.” 

“A reposeful woman,” said Evangeline, decidedly, 
72 


“BURFORD’S REWARD” 


* 'usually means one of the feather-bed variety, who 
smothers your best ideas, and lets a man’s manners and 
mind get rusty. No feather-beds for me. We don’t 
go in for feather-beds in my country. We don’t allow 
men to loll on us. We spur them on and keep them 
alert.” 

Charles seemed about to speak and half opened his 
mouth. Then he shut his lips firmly again and studied 
the menu in silence. 

“American men usually die young,” remarked Bur- 
ford, “and leave charming and sprightly widows.” 

Evangeline laughed. She was never bad-tempered or 
touchy. “Do you mean that we kill them off?” 

“A man wants a little rest sometimes, ” returned Bur- 
ford. “If a man is hustled all day at business, and then 
comes home and is hustled all the rest of the time by 
his women folk — poor devil, what a life! Better be a 
cab-horse, and be done with it.” 

“Nonsense,” said Evangeline. “The American man 
doesn’t want to marry a feather-bed. He has no use for 
the floppy, 'come and sit beside me in the firelight’ sort 
of woman. He is proud of her activity. He likes to see 
her shine.” 

“Let your wife so shine before men that she may 
glorify her husband who is in his office,” said Burford. 

“Burford,” said Lady Finborough, sharply, “don’t 
talk blasphemy at my table.” Evangeline was laughing 
helplessly. “Especially in Lent, too,” she added. 

“I beg your pardon, Cora, I couldn’t resist it. As a 
penance I will come and sing the correct version with you 
one day at Lyndhurst. ... Was the daughter with the 
goody-goody old-world name riding with Mrs. Marlowe 
to-day?” 

“No,” said Evangeline, “Mrs. Marlowe says she has 
gone clean crazy over all the old bits of London. She had 
gone to Westminster Abbey again. Of course, it is bully, 
but I think once is enough. Verity has been about half a 
dozen times already. I think that kind of place rather 

73 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


gloomy. But then Fm very modern. I like to live right 
in the present; I certainly do.” 

Charles gave an involuntary sigh. “I suppose you 
would like to do away with all the old-time buildings 
and places,” he said, quietly. 

“No, Charles, I wouldn’t. That’s what you won’t 
understand. But I do believe in bringing old things as 
much up to date as possible. Those old things are very 
picturesque and all that, but they want bringing up to 
date.” 

“To bring them up to date would spoil them,” said 
Charles, with a touch of sharpness. 

Lady Finborough interposed by carrying Evangeline 
off upstairs. “I’ll leave you two together to smoke,” 
she said, pointedly, trying to catch Burford’s eye. 

“I hope you’ve got some better cigars than you gave 
me last time, Cora. I’ll give you the address of my 
man, and the name of my brand. Your cigars are usu- 
ally atrocious. ’ ’ 

“Smoking is a silly habit. I sha’n’t encourage you.” 

“All right, then, I sha’n’t come to lunch. But it’s 
really a crime to insult such a good lunch as you gave me 
with a bad cigar.” 

Lady Finborough was rather mollified. “Oh! well, 
you can tell Charles what cigars you like.” She was not 
unfond of Burford, although she habitually disapproved 
of all his sayings and doings. 

She fired a last shot as she departed. “It would be 
far better if you denied yourself expensive cigars during 
Lent, and gave the money to some charitable object!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


4 4 SQUARING THE CIRCLE ’ ’ 

Burford laughed softly, as she made her final exit. 
Then he looked at Charles, who was moodily tracing pat- 
terns on the cloth with his coffee-spoon. 

“Have a cognac, my dear boy. You look a little 
hipped.’ ’ He helped himself to a green Chartreuse, and 
refused the cigar the butler offered him. “No, thanks, 
I’ll smoke one of my own. Remind me to give you that 
address, Charles. Don’t you find them filthy?” 

“I don’t often smoke,” said Charles. “I don’t care 
about it. No, I don’t want a cognac.” 

“You don’t care about smoking, and you don’t care 
about drinking; what on earth do you care about, 
Charles?” 

He looked at his nephew curiously. It suddenly 
struck him that, familiar as he was with Charles’s pres- 
ence, if he had been called upon to describe his character- 
istics he would have been at a complete loss. And it 
had never occurred to him before to wonder about him. 
He had seen him in sailor suits, in Eton collars, in 
cap and gown at Oxford, but the real man inside the 
clothes he had never tried to fathom. “My young 
nephew, Charles,” he always said when he spoke of him; 
but he was surely something besides that. But what? 
He was usually amiable, but not very talkative. He 
had done well at Oxford — strangely enough he had gone 
in for theology with considerable distinction to him- 
self — and since then he had lived the ordinary life of 
the young man about town who has no profession, save 

75 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


that of being heir to an old estate and a title, and who 
never seems to do anything in particular. 

As a rule, Burford Rees never wondered about the 
inner life of any one. He took his friends very much for 
granted. He was not interested in the psychology of 
men and women; he never probed for motives or convic- 
tions. His mind floated along the world like a ship on 
the sea. He never tried to pierce the mysteries which 
might lie at the bottom of the ocean; he never suspected 
the existence of any wondrously beautiful sea flowers, or 
any tragic wrecks. He was content with the surface 
calm. But something to-day, both in the task which his 
sister had laid on him and in the young man’s face, made 
him fish about a little below the surface. 

‘‘Don’t you care for any of the good things of life, 
Charles?” he repeated. ‘‘Don’t you care for good wine 
and pretty women, and all the other delightful things of 
this wicked world?” 

Charles hesitated and then a flush of embarrassment 
mounted to his face. 

“No,” he said, after a pause. “No, I suppose I 
don’t.” 

“How strange!” ejaculated his uncle with genuine 
wonderment, for Lady Finborough had in her time loved 
all the flesh pots, and still did herself extremely well. 
His brother-in-law, Finborough, was a bit of a crank, 
with inordinate enthusiasms for certain forms of sport, 
but he also enjoyed a good bottle of wine and a good din- 
ner. The only taste Finborough and his wife had in 
common was a liking for the good things of the palate. 

“Well, tell me, what do you like? Look here, old 
man, can’t you put a more cheerful and bridal face upon 
yourself? Of course, I know all the preparations for a 
fashiortable wedding are an awful bore, but just as you 
can’t be married in a suit of cricketing flannels, you’ve 
got to wear a more or less festive air. Don’t look as if 
you were going to the scaffold.” 

These remarks from some people, even from his 
76 


“SQUARING THE CIRCLE ’ 9 


mother, would have aroused his rather obstinate temper. 
But no one could feel offended with Burford Rees. One 
knew instinctively that he was neither inquisitive nor in- 
terfering. He never took enough interest in people for 
that. And Burford Rees said it very pleasantly, with a 
touch of the man of the world to the man of the world, 
which would have disarmed a less amiable character than 
Charles. Burford waited for his answer, with a lazy tol- 
erant smile on his rather full-lipped mouth, and a 
quizzical humor in his eyes. 

“Look here, Burford,” said Charles, abruptly — he was 
never called uncle, as he was considered too young for the 
privilege— “I know I look like a sulky pig, but I hate 
this marriage. I can’t become reconciled to it. The 
whole thing makes me feel like a hedgehog, and I feel all 
my prickles standing out on end.” 

“Nice for the lady,” said Burford, laughingly. Then, 
with a touch of seriousness, he added, “Don’t you like 
her? She’s a little bit strenuous, but she’s really a nice 
girl, with any amount of good sense and fun in her. 
What’s the trouble? Is there another woman?” 

“No,” said Charles, instantly. “It isn’t that. I 
know she’s all you say, but— well, I don’t feel like 
marrying.” 

Burford Rees looked at the gray, ashy end of his 
cigar reflectively. He hated the job of probing into the 
boy’s mind — his instinct was to leave people’s holies of 
holies undisturbed — but he had promised his sister to find 
out the trouble if he could. So he labored on. 

“You mean you don’t want to be tied up, eh? Want 
a little longer rope? You’re twenty-four, aren’t you? 
Well, thank Heaven, the modern marriage doesn’t alto- 
gether put the stopper on a man’s activities. You can 
still roam a bit if the fancy takes you.” 

Charles laughed. In that laugh Burford knew that he 
had not got on the right tack even yet. It was like the 
laugh of a man who is starving for bread and is offered a 
gold mine. 


77 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“You don’t understand,” he said, conquering his evi- 
dent distaste for speaking. “You’d never understand in 
a thousand years, Burford.” 

“My dear chap, why not try me?” said Burford, gent- 
ly. “I’m not a brainy chap, but I’d like to help you if 
I could, and anything you say is entirely between our- 
selves.” The thought of Cora, Lady Finborough, was 
present with both of them. 

“I know that,” returned Charles, and when he smiled 
it was wonderful how much more human his face became. 
“But — well, you see, this marriage is necessary, and I’m 
not really ungrateful to Evangeline for marrying me. 
She’s all you say she is. I recognize her good qualities 
as well as her defects, and I recognize the value her for- 
tune will be to all of us. I am sure I shall get fond of 
her when ” He stopped and drank some water. 

“When— ’’said Burford, absently, as though he were 
not very much interested in the recital. He was really 
trying as hard as he could to follow the working of the 
boy’s mind. 

Then Charles burst out. He spoke quickly and pas- 
sionately. His eyes flamed with a touch of fanaticism; 
his whole face lit up. Burford watched the change with 
amazement. 

“It was my bad luck to be born in this family and be 
the heir. Oh! how often I’ve rebelled against it and 
wished I’d been any one else in a lesser position. I don’t 
want to inherit the title and all its responsibilities. If I 
could get rid of the whole thing to-morrow — give it to 
Gerald” — Gerald was his younger brother — “I would do 
it most thankfully. Did you never guess what I wanted 
to be? Did you never suspect that I wanted to be a 
priest? That is what nature intended me to be. I don’t 
want to take my place in society, I don’t want to have a 
wife. I want to go into the Church. I believe in celi- 
bacy for the priests of God. I want to devote my life to 
ministering in the Church. I have always had this desire 
ever since I was a boy at school, but I have had to stifle 

78 


“SQUARING THE CIRCLE” 


it. I have got to stifle it finally now; I know it, but I 
haven’t the grace to do it cheerfully. And that’s why I 
look so sulky. I’m not a saint, that’s why I want the 
discipline of the Church. Perhaps really I’m not fitted 
for it, because I can’t accept my lot in life more resign- 
edly. You ask me if there is another woman?” He 
gave a little bitter laugh. “My only love is the Church.” 

Burford was dumfounded. Was this passionate 
youth “my young nephew, Charles?” The whole thing 
was extraordinary to him. Lady Finborough paraded 
her religion before the family as she would a new dress. 
She quoted the Scripture at unsuitable moments, and as 
a cloak for her worldliness. She worshiped the god of 
Mammon at an advanced Ritualist church, and insisted 
on most of her household following her example. But of 
real religion she had none. It was a becoming pose, and 
she adopted it as suitable to her age. But of its charity, 
its self-sacrifice, its spiritual uplifting she knew and 
cared nothing. She made religion suit her convenience. 
She had never in her life denied herself anything for 
it, or really given anything to it that cost her some- 
thing. 

Yet, reared in this atmosphere of false worship and 
hypocritical saintliness, Charles was a genuine zealot. 
He was willing to give up everything for his religion. 
He wanted none of the world’s fripperies, he had no per- 
sonal ambition to shine. Dimly, Burford perceived in 
this young man, looking down at the table-cloth and ner- 
vously playing with his spoon, the stuff of which fanatics 
are made. In a priest’s garb he would have been in his 
proper sphere; his austerity, which in the world he moved 
in was accounted to him for foolishness, would there 
have been accounted to him for righteousness. He 
belonged by rights to the High Church party, for in 
Charles, as in his mother, there was none of the genial 
breadth of religion. With him it was a matter of pas- 
sionate devotion to ritual. But no one hearing him speak 
could doubt how dear this ritual was to him, and that 

79 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


he was perfectly sincere in his wish to give up his 
worldly prospects. 

Burford was at a loss for words. The whole thing, in 
spite of Charles’s known bent toward the study of theol- 
ogy, was so unexpected, that he did not know how to 
meet it. 

Charles read his stupefaction. “You are fishing 
round for the right words, aren’t you, Burford? Don’t 
try. There’s nothing to be said. It’s one of Nature’s 
mistakes, that’s all. I ought not to have come into the 
Finborough cradle. But other men have been round pegs 
in square holes before now, and I’m a coward to whine 
about it. The round peg must try and square itself, 
that’s all.” 

“I was never great at mathematics, but ” 

Charles laughed. “Well, we mustn’t recognize the 
impossibility. There’s a lot of talk nowadays of the tri- 
umph of mind over matter, why shouldn’t there be a 
triumph of spirit over mind and matter? Besides, as 
long as one tries hard at the proposition, I suppose it 
doesn’t matter if you never do square the circle.” 

He rose from the table and put his hand on Burford ’s 
shoulder. Something of the brooding sulkiness had gone 
from the face. 

“I believe this outburst has done me good, Burford. 
Why I should tell you of all men, goodness knows. But 
at least I knew you wouldn’t laugh, although of course I 
seem a madman to you. I’ll buck up now and try and 
put on — what did you call it — a bridal face? I must 
marry money, and I might do much worse than Evange- 
line. In some ways I respect her. But there’s one way 
in which she just worries the life out of me.” 

“How’s that? Do you mean her talkativeness?” 

“No, although she does sometimes make you feel as 
if you had been out in a bad hailstorm. No. But, you 
know, Burford, she hasn’t got the proper feeling for our 
old places. She wants to improve Finborough Castle, and 
clean it up and put in all sorts of anachronisms which she 

80 


“SQUARING THE CIRCLE” 


calls ‘labor-saving devices/ and — well, you can guess 
how I feel about it. ’ ’ 

“Don’t let her do anything for a while, and wait till 
she’s lived for a few months at the Castle. She’ll feel 
differently when she’s got into the skin of the place. 
She’s by no means a stupid woman, and she’ll catch on, 
never fear. ’ ’ 

“She wants to turn the old disused chapel into a 
dairy,’’ said Charles, with a wry smile. “She says it is 
no good, and we ought to have a dairy and ’’ 

“You’re all coming down to Lyndhurst for Easter, 
aren’t you? Have I your permission to flirt with Evan- 
geline and transform her into a dirty, dusty antiquarian? 
Seriously, I think I might help a little.’’ 

“It’s a pity,’’ said Charles, “that she hasn’t got more 
of the spirit of Miss Marlowe. She wouldn’t want to 
scrub all the stones and whitewash the rafters. I never 
enjoyed anything so much as going over Westminster 
Abbey with her. Talk about veneration and enthusiasm! 
Why, I grew so proud of Westminster Abbey that I felt 
like waving the Union Jack in Parliament Square, Funny 
how Americans vary.’’ 

“My dear boy, that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve 
said yet. Do you think they were all made according to 
a strict formula, and that we are the only nation that has 
any flights of fancy, or different kinds of characters? It’s 
all the funnier when you remember the size of America 
as compared with England. Why, we are like a haystack 
on her map!’’ 

Charles could not help laughing. “Oh, yes, we’re 
beastly insular, I admit. Still, Miss Marlowe is hardly 
like any American girl I have met.’’ 

“I’ve been told I ought to marry,’’ said Burford, with 
the air of being inconsequent. 

“Well,’’ said Charles, “you don’t exactly dislike 
women, do you, Burford?’’ 

And Burford Rees grinned. 


7 


CHAPTER IX 


AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION 

“I DIDN’T wait for you,” said Philippa, looking up 
from her half-finished lunch to Verity and her brother. 
“I believe your only time-keeper is your appetite, and as 
you both ate an amazing breakfast, I thought you might 
be very late.” 

“So sorry, motherkins,” said Verity, giving her an 
affectionate pat on the shoulder, “but we’ve had a lovely 
morning.” 

She drew a deep breath of satisfaction. 

“More tombs?” said Philippa, indulgently. 

“No, pictures. We’ve been to the National Gallery, 
and oh!” — she lifted her eyes expressively to the ceiling. 

Philippa nodded. 

“Yes, I remember seeing some very nice pictures 
there years ago.” 

“Very nice pictures! Mother, I nearly cried! Didn’t 
I, uncle? Do you know that feeling, when you see some- 
thing just magnificent, and you want to take it all in 
quickly, and you know you can’t, and you feel it’s been 
there for years and years, and you haven’t seen it before, 
and ” 

“Heavens!” exclaimed Philippa, “what a voluble 
daughter I have! You’re nearly as bad as Evangeline.” 

“Here, stuff your mouth with these hors d’oeuvres y ” 
sai d George . ‘ ‘ They ’ re good . ” 

“I don’t want any lunch. I’m full of pictures. Oh, 
those lovely Reynoldses and Gainsboroughs! I wish we 
had them in New York.” 


82 


AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION 


“We’re grabbing them as fast as we can,” said her 
mother. 

“And yet I don’t know,” said Verity, with a pretty 
little air of reflection, “they seem to belong to England 
somehow, don’t they? Yon go up those grimy, ugly 
steps, right there by the Strand, and that old St. Martin’s 
church, and you just know you’ll find them there. Oh, 
I love London! It’s so nice and dirty and homely.” 

“Homely! You seem to be taking to England quite 
nicely,” said her mother, dryly, and she caught George’s 
eye twinkling. 

“Well, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t, is there?” 
said Verity, innocently, munching her roll and butter, 
while her eyes seemed full of dreams. 

“The hotels aren’t as comfortable as ours,” said Phil- 
ippa, with unreasonable sharpness. 

Verity tried to bring her mind down from pictures to 
hotels. 

“No, maybe they’re not,” she said, “but it isn’t for 
the hotels we came over, is it? What have you been 
doing this morning, mumsie? Were you lonely without 
us?” 

“No,” said Philippa, regaining her usual calm, “I 
went to see about some frocks with Evangeline Vicary. 
You must go in a few days’ time and have that frock 
fitted for the wedding.” 

“Oh, bother! Silly waste of time, having frocks 
fitted on.” 

“Verity,” said her mother, anxiously, “I must insist 
on your spending a little more attention on your clothes. 
I want you to look well.” 

“Oh! am I untidy?” cried her daughter, with a note 
of dismay. She put her fingers in her belt, patted her 
hair, fingered the bow at the neck of her simple blue 
serge frock with a disturbed expression. “I’m so sorry!” 

“It’s all right, child,” said Philippa, with a smile, 
“you’re quite tidy, but doesn’t it enter your head that 
there are other points about dress than tidiness? You 

83 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


talk like a girl in a store, earning fifteen dollars a week. 
Don’t you want pretty frocks?” 

“Yes — you choose them for me,” said Verity, prompt- 
ly. “You have wonderful taste. Holt Vicary said so the 
other day. You see,” she added by way of explanation, 
“I haven’t got time for frocks and frills just now. If I 
were on a desert island I should have — that is, if I’d ex- 
plored the island first.” 

“You’re like a child let loose in a candy store,” said 
George, yet with evident sympathy, looking at her small, 
eager face. “You’ll get mental indigestion soon. I 
shall prescribe frocks and frills by way of medicine.” 

They looked up, with one accord, at a party of four 
that had come to occupy the table next to theirs, which 
had been marked “Engaged.” Besides her passion for 
pictures and tombs, Verity liked to observe unfamiliar 
types. One of her teachers at school had once impressed 
it on her that there was no necessity ever to be bored, 
that Moliere had said, “Je n’ai regarder le monde.” 
And two of the types at the adjoining table were not 
familiar to her: the man whom she took to be the host, 
and one of the women. 

A more experienced critic would have instantly dubbed 
the woman “actress.” Renee d’Almaine was fairly well 
known to London theater-goers, especially in what is 
called advanced drama, and at the Stage Society. She 
moved with a studied, languorous grace that was meant 
to suggest everything that is alluring and womanly. She 
had a beautiful if rather full figure, and she was very 
well dressed in black velvet and ermine. Verity thought 
she must be ill, her face was so white; but she did not 
know Renee’s peculiar and individual make-up, which 
consisted of a wonderful pallor with blue shadows under 
the eyes. With this appearance she combined a plain- 
tive, cooing voice, which had its own odd inflections, and 
she had carefully cultivated a wistful, appealing air of 
helplessness. 

Under her arm she carried a morsel of a dog with a 
84 


AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION 


long, silky coat, and when she sat down she put him in 
her lap. Verity recognized the host as being an English 
type, and she watched him because he was so different 
from the American men she had met. She vaguely felt 
that there were possibilities about such a man that were 
not apparent on the surface, that the “let it rip” air 
might be a mere livery assumed, as she had begun to 
note, by many Englishmen; that his rather lazy way of 
speaking and moving might, under some circumstances, 
be quickened into alertness. But to-day he looked dis- 
tinctly sleepy and bored. There was nothing of the 
quick, keen American about him. Verity thought that 
he seemed to belong to England just as the pictures did. 

“Good-looking man,” said Philippa, who had also 
been watching them, “German, I should say.” She 
judged by his hair, which he wore brushed straight back 
from his forehead. 

“No,” said George Bradley, “he’s as English as they 
make them.” 

The two women looked at him in surprise. 

“Why, do you ?” 

“It’s Sir Burford Rees, brother of Lady Finborough. 
I was introduced to him the other day at the club.” 

“He doesn’t look as if he were very much interested 
in his companions,” said Verity, giving another glance 
at him. 

Burford Rees was not. He ate his lunch with an ab- 
stracted air, and left Renee to talk to the two other 
people present. He was thinking over a disclosure of his 
nephew’s on the previous day, and reflecting how curious 
it was that his sister’s assumed virtues had come home to 
roost. And he was indifferent to and rather annoyed 
with Renee D’Almaine. He had planned to have a morn- 
ing’s golf— to keep his weight down, as he expressed it— 
and Renee had telephoned that she particularly wanted to 
see him. On arriving at her flat he found that all she 
wanted was that he should take her, and her sister and 
her brother-in-law, out to lunch. She merely wanted 

85 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


him to pay for the lunch, as he well understood; and 
though he was a generous man, he was not pleased with 
her. She looked up at him rather plaintively now and 
then, with her blue-circled eyes, but he took no notice. 
For one thing, the shot was no longer deadly; he had 
assumed the armor of indifference. He would have 
ceased to see or trouble about her long ago, but she was 
of the type of woman that clings as long as there is any 
advantage to be obtained. 

Burford Rees’s ideas about women were absolutely 
simple. There were only two classes for him in the 
world, and he drew a deep line between the two — the 
“wrong ’uns” and the “right ’uns.” For those on the 
wrong side of the hedge he had an easy tolerance and a 
certain camaraderie; for those on the right he had a 
deep-rooted respect and reverence, but — he did not know 
much about them. All the women in his life only lived 
on the fringe of it. He did not in anyway share his life 
or thoughts with them. He was always agreeable and 
genial, but nobody had ever captured the real Burford 
Rees, or rather the man he might be. 

“Lie down, Fido,” said Renee to the small dog, who 
would rear his head almost into her plate. 

“I wish you wouldn’t bring that worm out with 
you,” said Burford. “I hate those silly pampered lap- 
dogs, anyway.” 

Renee caught up the offending worm and kissed him. 
She was not particularly fond of him, but she knew that 
the picture her reproachful eyes made above his little 
silky face was theatrically effective. Burford applied 
himself to his lunch. Then he bethought himself of his 
manners, and of Renee’s sister on his other side, and he 
turned to her. After all, she was not to blame. 

“You don’t often come up to town, I think you said, 
Mrs. Roberts?” he remarked. 

She was rather plain and very quietly dressed. 
Therefore he assumed her to be thoroughly respectable, 
and dull. 


86 


AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION 


“No,” she said, smiling. “I’m like the old woman 
in the shoe, you know.” 

Burford cast his thoughts back to his childhood days. 
“Let’s see — she had ” 

“ ‘So many children she didn’t know what to do?’ ” 

He looked at her with a slow astonishment. She was 
quite young. 

“Oh! they are not my own,” she said, laughing. 
“Jack and I,” she nodded toward her husband, “run a 
small home for children. It is rescue work,” she added. 
“We have ten children in the house now, and we hope to 
find room for two more soon.” 

“But why? Are you so fond of children?” 

“Yes, I am fond of children, and I have none of my 
own.” She hesitated, then she continued, quietly, “Per- 
haps you don’t know how heartrending some of these 
children’s cases are? We take little ones from drunken 
parents, and try to give them a chance in life. I used to 
try to help in the country district in which we live by 
visiting the cottages, and I saw so many dreadful cases 
that — that we felt we must do something. We started 
with a child of four, who had been beaten by a drunken 
mother, and who had three broken ribs and a dislocated 
shoulder. Oh, it was dreadful to see things like that! 
I couldn’t stand it. So, in a small way, we founded a 
Home for children.” 

She colored a little. She evidently disliked talking 
about herself. Burford looked at her with more atten- 
tion, and for the first time he saw the beauty of her eyes 
— eyes like Renee’s, but full of a wonderful glowing 
sincerity. 

Renee mistook his silence. “Oh! Rose has a ‘bee in 
her bonnet,’ ’’she said, carelessly. “She can’t expect 
everybody to be interested in her gutter-children. Most 
of them are horribly plain. You wouldn’t like them.” 

But Burford Rees took no notice of her remarks. 
What a curious thing to find such a woman sister to 
Renee d’Almaine! He had seen at once that she was of 

87 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


a different type, but that she should be an active philan- 
thropist! Suddenly the world seemed to him full of 
unexpected corners. It is too much to say that he began 
to consider men and women for the first time in the light 
of complicated problems, but he was surprised, for the 
second time in twenty-four hours, at the intricate work- 
ings of the human machine. 

'‘But, tell me/’ he said slowly, “do you keep this 
home going yourself ?” 

“Well, Jack has taken up intensive French gardening 
to pay the expenses. He has done rather well, and we 
have just a little money of our own besides. And two of 
the children are paid for at the rate of four shillings a 
week. We just manage. Rent-day is rather a time of 
tribulation, but we always pull through. And if you 
could see how the children thrive on good plain food and 
fresh air! Do you remember that little child of three we 
rescued, Renee? I think you were spending a week-end 
at the time.” 

Renee made a grimace and gave a fastidious shudder. 

“Horrid wretch; it smelt of gin!” 

Mrs. Roberts saw that Burford was interested, and 
she went on. “This little mite was brought up on gin! 
Doesn’t it sound dreadful? And though she is a very 
healthy child of five now, she has hardly grown at all. 
When she came in, she wouldn’t eat any food or drink 
milk; she kept asking for ‘a drop’ — which meant gin. 
Isn’t it pitiful?” 

Just then Renee put the little dog on the floor, keep- 
ing hold of the lead. She was plainly not interested in 
her sister’s life-work. She was exchanging glances with 
a good-looking man who was lunching alone at a neigh- 
boring table. 

“Good gracious!” said Burford, “I don’t like to hear 
of such things. Where is your home, Mrs. Roberts?” 

“At Harberton.” 

Burford knew the village well; it was a few miles 
from Lyndhurst, his own place. 

88 


AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION 


Just then, everybody was startled by wild, terrified 
howling from the dog. Like most lap-dogs, it yapped as 
though it were being killed. Verity was the only one 
who saw what had occurred. Mrs. Roberts’s dress hap- 
pened to have a wide band of inserted lace where it 
rested on the floor. The dog had run on to the edge of 
her dress, and caught his claws in the meshes of the lace. 
He was terrified — wild with fright. For a moment every 
one stared helplessly. Then Verity jumped up impul- 
sively, and went to the dog’s rescue. He had now in his 
struggles caught his other foot, too, and was hopelessly 
entangled. Renee shrank back helplessly, making no 
effort to rescue her pet. Mrs. Roberts could not see 
what the trouble was. 

Burford got up, but by that time Verity had taken 
hold of the dog, and was working to extricate his feet. 
The dog was so terrified that he snapped wildly to right 
and left, and to his horror Burford saw the red blood run 
over her hand. 

‘‘Let me take him,” he said, quickly, “don’t touch 
the beast.” 

“Hold his head,” said Verity. “I’m getting him 
free.” The dog was still yapping and howling, effecting 
a noise out of all proportion to his size. The whole res- 
taurant was standing up and watching. For a few mo- 
ments, everything was in confusion. 

Then Verity’s deft fingers set him free. Blood was 
trickling all over her hand. 

“Poor doggie, he was badly frightened,” she said, 
rising from her kneeling position. 

“Never mind the dog. Here, take him.” He threw 
him over unceremoniously to Renee. “The brute has 
bitten you.” 

He pulled out his handkerchief and proffered it to 
Verity. 

“Thank you. It’s nothing, it was only a harmless 
little snap.” Her face was flushed a delicate pink, for 
she felt herself the cynosure of all eyes. 

89 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Better go upstairs at once and wash it,” said George 
Bradley. 

Burford looked up and recognized him. “You, Brad- 
ley! I can't tell you how sorry I am.” He looked at 
Verity. “I wish you’d left him to me ” 

“Oh! I saw what had happened and you didn’t,” said 
Verity. “It’s really nothing. He didn’t mean to bite, 
only he was so frightened. ” She smiled reassuringly into 
his face, as she bound the handkerchief tightly round her 
hand. 

“We’ll go upstairs and bathe it,” said Philippa, 
quietly. 

The two men were left together. 

“Little beasts, those lap-dogs,” said Burford, angrily. 
“Mr. Bradley, I owe you a thousand apologies for break- 
ing up your luncheon-party. And as for the young lady 
whose hand was bitten ” 

“She is my niece, Verity Marlowe. I am sure she 
doesn’t wish you to be so distressed about it. The 
dog was not mad; there is nothing, really, to worry 
about. ’ ’ 

“Verity Marlowe,” repeated Burford Rees, slowly, for 
the moment forgetting in what connection he had heard 
the name. Then he recollected, and something like inter- 
est quickened in his eyes. “It was awfully plucky of 
her,” he said, “to touch a strange dog like that. Most 
women would have made an awful fuss and fainted, or 
something, if they had been bitten. By Jove, she is 
plucky.” 

His eyes kindled. He looked at Renee, who, having 
taken no part in the fray, was sitting white and trem- 
bling in a chair. 

“I believe I shall have the opportunity soon of thank- 
ing Miss Marlowe for what she did,” he said, slowly. “I 
believe you are all dining at my sister’s to-night.” 

“That is so,” said Bradley. 

“Then I shall see her. Once more, a thousand apolo- 
gies for upsetting your lunch.” 

90 


AN INFORMAL INTRODUCTION 


Burford went back to his own table. “Renee, take 
that little beast home. I can’t bear the sight of it.” 

At the entrance of the hotel, Burford found himself 
left alone with Mrs. Roberts for a minute. 

“I am so sorry for what occurred,” she said, lifting 
her eyes to his. “I don’t think Renee will bring the dog 
out again to a public place.” 

Burford controlled the anger which was unaccountably 
boiling up in him against Renee. At that moment he 
wished that he might never see her or Fido again. 

Like most men of his class, there was nothing he dis- 
liked so much as a scene. The whole episode had angered 
him beyond words. And her theatrical trembling at the 
end left him cold. But Mrs. Roberts was a different 
matter. 

“Oh, it was an accident,” he said, trying to speak 
lightly. “But I wish Miss Marlowe’s hand had not been 
bitten.” 

“So do I. I feel rather guilty, because it was the 
lace on my dress that caused it. But don’t be angry with 
Renee.” She hesitated, then she spoke quite simply and 
sincerely. “I want to thank you, Sir Burford, for being 
such a good friend to her. She has told me how kind 
you have been. I am very glad to have met you. Renee 
is always a little on my mind,” — with a faint note of 
wistfulness — “because she is very pretty, and not all men 
have your gentlemanly instincts. I wish she would come 
and live in the country with us. Can’t you persuade 
her?” 

“I can’t fancy her among the rescued gin drinkers,” 
he said humorously. 

It was an impossible picture. It was so funny that it 
almost restored his good temper. Just then Renee joined 
them, more plaintive than ever. 

“I have been asking Sir Burford to urge you to come 
and live in the country, and thanking him for being such 
a kind friend to you,” remarked Mrs. Roberts, holding 
out her hand in farewell. 


91 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“I won’t bring Fido out again with me,” said Renee, 
in a low tone. “I’m sorry, Burford. Do forgive me.” 

Burford hated such uncomfortable words as “forgive. ’ * 
They gave him a feeling of outraged decency. He hastily 
murmured a few words, and then saw her into a taxi. 

Left alone, he deliberated for a minute in the sunshine 
on the pavement. Then he sauntered to the nearest flor- 
ist’s, and selected a huge bunch of purple and white lilac, 
tied up with broad mauve ribbons. 

He scribbled on one of his cards: 

“I do hope your hand is better. I am horribly dis- 
tressed. Please forgive me. 

Burford Rees.” 

Verity received the flowers an hour later in her bed- 
room, and there Philippa found her regarding the big 
bouquet with the liveliest satisfaction and childlike de- 
light. 

“Mother, I am really grown up! Look! look at my 
flowers, from a MAN!” 


CHAPTER X 


A SMALL DINNER-PARTY 

Verity sat in front of the dressing-table, in a delicate 
white crepe kimono embroidered with long trails of pur- 
ple wistaria, while Annette, her mother’s maid, arranged 
her pretty red -brown hair. And as she sat in unwonted 
quietness — for Verity seldom sat still for more than two 
minutes — she surveyed herself in the mirror in front of 
her. She had only once before in her life had her hair 
dressed for her; for usually she resented the time spent 
and the inaction, and always dressed it herself, in a very 
few minutes. Her hair was not long, it fell just below 
her shoulders, but it was very abundant, and had a 
charming wave. Annette piled it into little glossy curls 
with deft fingers, and Verity watched her in the glass. 

“You’re making quite a lot of it, Annette,’’ she said, 
with a note of surprise. 

Annette smiled. “If you will permit me to say so, 
mam’zelle, I often think you do not make enough of it. 
You screw it up too tightly — and your hair is so pretty. 
It is a thousand pities. ’ ’ 

“Is it pretty — do you really think so? I always 
wanted to have long black hair like mother’s. I’ve al- 
ways been annoyed about it.’’ 

“But your color is much more uncommon, mam’zelle. ’ ’ 

“Is it?’’ said Verity, thoughtfully, taking up a hand- 
mirror. 

The reason she had departed from her usual practice 
of dressing her own hair was that her hand had been 
bound up, and although the wound was not in any way 

93 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


serious, it would have been very uncomfortable and awk- 
ward to wind up her own tresses as usual. 

When Annette had finished and fastened a Grecian 
fillet of seed pearls in her hair, Verity was glad she had 
employed her. She saw for herself how very happy the 
result was. 

“You must teach me how to do it like that, Annette. 
Now my dress, please. Did you say mother was quite 
ready? Because if she wants you, you must go to her.” 

“I don’t want her,” said Philippa from the door- 
way. “But you must hurry, child. We haven’t dined 
at Lady Finborough’s before, and it won’t do to be 
late.” 

“I’m so sorry,” said Verity, penitently, her head 
poking through the top of the white frock, “but I got so 
interested in that book 1 forgot the time. It’s perfectly 
fascinating, mother.” 

“What! that book on architecture we bought this 
morning? Quaint girl you are, Verity. In my young 
days it would have been a novel.” 

“I don’t believe I care for novels very much, at least 
not the lovey-dovey ones. They’re so — so unnecessary, 
and don’t you think they’re sometimes in bad taste?” 

“In bad taste! What do you mean?” 

“Well, mother — ” Verity hesitated as though trying 
to find the right words — “it’s difficult to say what I mean, 
but I think novels make — make love too cheap and com- 
monplace. There are lots of things you can imagine for 
yourself, and you don’t want to have ‘darlings’ and ‘dear 
hearts’ all over the page. Novelists never leave much to 
the imagination in love scenes, do they, and ” 

“And you prefer your own day-dreams?” said Phil- 
ippa, quietly. 

Verity blushed a little. “Well, yes, I believe I do. 
All those things are— well, too intimate and sacred to 
talk or write much about, don’t you think?” 

She looked up from the spray of lilac— Burford’s gift 
—which she was fastening in her dress, to find Philippa 

94 


A SMALL DINNER-PARTY 


regarding her with a curious expression, that held more 
than a touch of sadness. 

“Am I talking rot?” she said, quickly, goingup to her. 

“No .... are you ready, dear?” 

Verity stopped still in front of Philippa, as she stood 
with her foot on the fender before the cheerful little fire, 
and regarded her with genuine, unenvious admiration. 

“Mother, how perfectly splendid you look to-night, 
and what a beautiful frock!” 

The exclamation was not uncalled for, for Philippa 
did look her best that evening. Her gown was a very 
rich one of heavily jetted black net and lace, which 
showed the fine lines of her figure to perfection. 

Her cloak of rose-red velvet and gold was flung over 
her shoulders. She certainly was an imposing figure as 
she smiled back at Verity’s compliment. 

“You look very sweet, too, dear,” she said. 

But Verity’s face had taken on an expression of 
thoughtfulness. Some subtle change passed over her 
eager little face. Then she looked from her mother to the 
large bowl of lilac that Burford Rees had sent, and spoke 
with quick decision. 

“That’s one of the new dresses you got from Evan- 
geline’s costumier, isn’t it? Well, I think I do want 
some more frocks. I’ll go with you, please, to-morrow, 
mother.” 

“Why, I thought you said — 99 began Philippa teas- 
ingly, but Verity sealed her lips with a quick kiss. 

“I’ve grown up into a woman, therefore I’ve got the 
prerogative of changing my mind. I want some quite 
nice frocks, like yours.” She looked down at her own 
frock disparagingly. “This is a little childish, don’t 
you think? After all, I’ve turned eighteen, and you were 
married at eighteen, weren’t you? Not that I want to 
get married, only,” and her eyes twinkled with fun, “I 
don’t want to look like your underpaid companion. Some 
one might marry me out of pity, thinking I wouldn’t cost 
much for frocks.” 


95 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


They found George Bradley waiting for them in the 
hall, reading a letter which he thrust into his pocket. 

'‘Such a jolly letter from Veronica. She is missing 
me quite a deal, and says she feels miserable and lost. 
Isn't that fine news? Oh! she’ll come over on one of the 
next boats, you’ll see — How’s the hand?” 

‘‘Oh! it’s nothing, only I can’t get a glove on respect- 
ably. I have to hang my hand out of the top of the glove. 
Do you think Lady Finborough will be shocked?” 

‘‘I dare say she’ll order you out of the house or take 
you for the housemaid. Come along, we’re late as it is. 
We’ll say your hand had to be dressed, and that you 
fainted twice, and ” 

“I was reading that book, and, Georgie Porgie, 
you’re wrong. You’ve lost a dollar. That arch is Nor- 
man. I told you so.” 

They found every one assembled when they arrived, 
Evangeline and Viscount Overton, Burford Rees, Mrs. 
Vicary and Holt, Lord Finborough, and a friend of 
Charles’s, Rex Patterson. 

Burford Rees quickly made his way to Verity’s side, 
before his sister had time to introduce him. 

‘‘Do let’s leave it at an informal introduction. But 
I’m afraid it was a very painful one for you. ” He looked 
at the hand. ‘‘I am so dreadfully sorry.” 

‘‘It doesn’t hurt a bit,” said Verity, quickly, looking 
up into his face with a frank smile. ‘‘Only my hands 
don’t look very respectable, do they?” 

‘‘I shall have to cut up your food for you,” said Bur- 
ford, promptly. ‘‘I told my sister of the accident, and 
said I must be your partner to-night. It’s the least I can 
do, to cut up your food.” 

Verity laughed. 

‘‘It’s not as bad as that.” Then, softly, ‘‘Thank you 
so much for the lilac. It is beautiful.” 

They were moving into dinner. Lady Finborough 
turned to her with a gracious smile. 

“Burford insists on feeding you, I believe. I hear 
96 


A SMALL DINNER-PARTY 


you had quite an adventure this morning. I hate lap- 
dogs myself. Never allow my friends to bring them 
here. A woman refused to come upstairs once without 
her dog, and she went away. I will not countenance this 
ridiculous craze for petted, snappy beasts. It's quite 
bad enough to be snapped at by bad-tempered dowagers 
and acidulated spinsters, but I will not stand toy dogs. ,, 

“Well, ,, said Verity, “I love dogs, but I like the 
bigger varieties best. We have a delightful bulldog in 
our home in New York, and for a long time we had such 
a fine bloodhound. But, you know, I have a good deal of 
sympathy with those little creatures, when they snap and 
get frightened. Why, just think, we must appear like 
huge mountains to them. Fancy, if we should find our- 
selves at the mercy of some great giant twenty times our 
size. Don’t you think we would snap and yell? I 
should.” 

“Never thought of it like that,” remarked Burford. 

“Your friend was rather upset, wasn’t she?” said 
Verity. “I thought she was going to faint. I caught 
sight of her as mother took me away, and her face was 
very white.” 

“Oh! she’d faint if a mouse peeped out at her, espe- 
cially if some one was looking on.” Then he added, 
quickly, “She wasn’t really frightened. I hate women 
who squeal out directly they think they’re going to be 
hurt. ’ ’ 

“Like the White Queen ,” said Verity, with a smile. 

“Eh?” 

“The White Queen in ‘Alice in Wonderland’; don’t 
you remember?” 

“Oh! It’s a long, long time since I used to read 
that.” 

The little exaggeration reminded Verity of the differ- 
ence in their ages. This man beside her was, of course, 
much older than herself. She began to wonder how he 
regarded her. Did she seem very childish to him? Im- 
pulsively she asked the question. 

8 97 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Do I seem very young to you?” she said. 

For a moment he was taken back. “I will reply — do 
I seem very old to you?” 

“Why, no,” she said, laughing. 

He noticed that the curves of her mouth were very 
charming when she laughed, and her teeth were very 
white. “I don’t feel quite that you could play a game 
of Blind Man’s Buff and, of course, I could.” 

“Try me, ’ ’ said Burford, promptly. ‘ ‘We might have 
a game of Blind Man’s Buff after dinner. Is that a game 
at which you may exact forfeits?” 

“Have a game of what?” said Lady Finborough, who 
was next to him. “Did you say a game of bridge?” 

“No, Blind Man’s Buff. Will you be Blind-Man, 
Cora, or will you be Puss-in-the-Corner?” He heard 
Verity give a little suppressed chuckle by his side, for 
Lady Finborough was this evening en grande tenue, 
radiant in diamonds, and very impressive. 

“I was going to warn you that I never allow bridge 
during Lent in my house. One must deny oneself some- 
thing.” 

“But I saw you playing at Lady Brabazon’s the other 
day,” said her brother, “and they told me you won 
twelve pounds. ’ ’ 

“That wasn’t my house,” said Lady Finborough, com- 
placently. 

“No wonder you’ve been out so much lately. I won- 
dered why it was. But of course you gave all your win- 
nings to the church?” 

Lady Finborough made no reply, she was busy with 
her fish. 

Viscount Overton was on the other side of Verity, and 
she turned to him out of courtesy, for somehow she felt 
a little afraid of his ascetic personality. Charles was 
more her own age, and yet she did not feel at ease with 
him as she did with Burford. She remarked on the 
beauty of the flame-colored azaleas which adorned the 
table. 


98 


A SMALL DINNER-PARTY 


“Yes, they were sent up from Finborough Castle,” he 
said. “We have a most enthusiastic head gardener there 
who is trying to grow purple azaleas. He takes a great 
interest in the greenhouses. ’ ’ 

Verity knew that he and Evangeline were going to 
live at Finborough Castle, and she was interested. 

“I am sure it must be a beautiful old place, from 
Evangeline’s description,” she said. “You must be 
awfully proud of it. It must be fine to own such a place, 
with all its memories.” 

His face lit up, and Verity wondered why she had 
thought it dull. His eyes kindled as he commenced to 
talk to her about it. He had a most interested listener, 
and he found himself letting slip some of his real enthu- 
siasm for the home of his forefathers. In the family, 
Finborough Castle was always regarded as a good deal of 
a nuisance. It was most expensive to keep up, and it 
was a good way from town. But his home and the 
Church were the two things Charles passionately loved. 
He would have liked to live there always, to leave town 
and its showy pleasures far away, but Evangeline had 
already announced her intention of being a good deal in 
town. 

Presently Verity heard Burford’s voice in a plaintive 
key in her ear. 

“I took you in to dinner. Do take a little notice of 
me. Charles has had his innings.” 

She turned with a laugh, flushing a little at the 
thought that her attention should be so much in request. 
Like the girl she was, it pleased her. She had not meant 
to play off Charles against Burford Rees, but, at his 
words, she felt the first risings of a woman’s coquetry. 

“I was very interested in hearing about Finborough 
Castle,” she said, demurely. 

“Well, let me tell you about my place, Lyndhurst. I 
think it’s much nicer than Finborough, though it isn’t so 
large. You like old things, don’t you? I hear you live 
among the tombs in Westminster Abbey?” 

99 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


* ‘Nonsense. Fve only been there four times, and 
that isn’t much to see such a place, is it?” 

“Good gracious, I can’t remember when I went last. 
Oh, yes, I know, it was Irving’s funeral, and I was so 
occupied in watching how bad most of our leading actors 
looked off the stage that I hadn’t much time to notice 
the Abbey. I say, do show me the Abbey some day. I 
am sure Americans know more about our venerable piles 
than we do. ” 

“You’d chatter all the time. I know you would, and 
I hate people who chatter in such places.” 

“I swear I wouldn’t. You can put a strip of stick- 
ing-plaster over my mouth if you like. I’d be the 
tamest, dumbest thing you ever came across. ’ ’ 

“But you can go any day by yourself,” objected Veri- 
ty, her eyes smiling. 

“Yes, but I always get very lonely among the tombs. 
They’re depressing, don’t you think? Seriously, though, 
doesn’t that sort of thing — dust and ashes sort of busi- 
ness — depress you?” 

“No,” she said, thoughtfully, “I know what you 
mean, but I don’t feel it.” 

“What sort of feelings do you have?” said Burford, 
curiously. 

He felt that he wanted to know what was behind those 
bright, strange-colored eyes. 

She hesitated a moment. “You know some one re- 
cently called the Abbey ‘The Temple of Silence and Rec- 
onciliation, ’ and I always think of that when I go now. 
Because it is wonderful, isn’t it, how the people who 
fought against one another, in religion and politics, in 
war and literature, all lie side by side now, like the 
greatest of friends. It is so strange to think how the 
Romanists fought the Puritans, and different divines 
preached against one another, and now they are all recon- 
ciled in the Abbey. When you read the epitaphs, you 
feel that every one was fighting something or somebody, 
or defending his country or his religion, and you wonder 
100 


A SMALL DINNER-PARTY 


if you ought not to be fighting for something, too. Oh! 
what fine lives some of those people led, lives worth liv- 
ing! I read the record of a famous admiral there the 
other day. The engagements he had been in! The bat- 
tles he had fought! Wouldn’t it be fine to be the wife 
of such a man and know that such an epitaph would be 
put up to his memory!” 

Her eyes glowed, her face was full of enthusiasm, as 
she turned it toward him. And he had no words to 
answer her. He had expected some airy, girlish answer, 
but that she should have really thought about the place 
took his breath away. Used as he was invariably to 
answer women with lazy flippancy and gay badinage, he 
was for once nonplussed. He simply stared at her in 
astonishment. 

Then he managed to say, “Go on.” 

“Oh! no, I can’t put things properly. I can’t express 
the thoughts that run through my brain. But, no, I 
don’t find it depressing. Uncle George calls it ‘the 
national Valhalla.’ We often imagine, George and I, 
that we can see the people come out of their tombs and 
walk about with us. Wouldn’t it be splendid if they 
really could!” 

“I wonder how we should look, side by side with 
them,” said Charles, who had joined in the conversation. 
“I think the modern man would look very purposeless 
and effeminate beside those good old fighting men.” 

“Oh! we could fight if we wanted to,” said Burford, 
quickly, with an unconscious squaring of the shoulders. 
“Look what the Boer War brought forth!” 

“Yes, but it took most of the men some time to get 
over our soft living. You can’t make a house-dog that 
sleeps in a padded basket, and feeds regularly every day, 
into a good hunting animal right off. Dogs used to be 
hardy and have strong teeth, but most of them are pretty 
poor nowadays.” 

“That’s unkind,” laughed Verity, “considering what 
a very small dog did to-day.” 

101 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Well, I don't know — are we or are we not a degener- 
ate nation?" 

Rex Patterson spoke across the table: “Of course we 
are. We are approaching the end; we shall be gobbled 
up by the yellow races one day." 

“Oh! you've got the Yellow Peril on the brain," said 
Burford. “I refuse to listen to such rubbish." 

“We are getting old; we are decaying. Our star is 
in the descendant." 

“And I suppose you are going to add that the only 
thing that can save us is Tariff Reform?" said Charles. 
“Of course, if you " 

“Oh! Cora, do say you don’t allow political discus- 
sions in Lent," groaned Burford. 

There was a general laugh, and Lady Finborough rose. 

“No, but we will leave you men to thresh out your 
differences of opinion over the coffee. I refuse to take 
any interest in politics. At the present moment every- 
body has political indigestion, and I don’t want it. It 
might be fatal to me at my age." She smiled grimly. 

In the drawing-room she was pleased to speak approv- 
ingly of Verity to Philippa, whom she had drawn down 
beside her on the sofa. 

“She is very charming. She is not too grown-up and 
slangy. I hate the modern girl, who votes me an old 
bore, and thinks she has nothing to learn from me. But 
Verity is different." 

“She is a dear," said Philippa, warmly. 

“She is not going to be nearly so handsome as you, 
my dear, " continued Lady Finborough, calmly, “but per- 
haps she takes after her father? He was English, I 
understand." 

“Yes, he was English. At least, he was born in Eng- 
land, and brought up in New York." 

Presently the men of the party came in. Lady Fin- 
borough moved away, and Holt Vicary took her place. 

“Why do you treat me as if I were a young boy?" he 
said, abruptly. 


102 


A SMALL DINNER-PARTY 


Philippa had carefully and conscientiously adopted 
this attitude, but she was not aware that he had no- 
ticed it. 

“Oh, well, ,, lightly, “you are not exactly a veteran, 
are you? Do you want me to treat you with respect?’ ’ 

“No, but I refuse to be patted on the head— meta- 
phorically, I mean. In reality, I should love it.” 

“I thought men hated having their hair touched,” 
returned Philippa, inconsequently. 

“Yes, but mine’s so short you couldn’t disarrange it 
very much. But seriously, why do you treat me like a 
kid? Are you trying to keep me in my place? And 
what is my proper place, please?” 

His good-humored face was quite serious for once, 
and when he was not laughing he looked older. 

“Am I to choose your place?” she asked, lightly. 

“Yes. Do you want me at your feet, by your side, or 
at the other end of the room?” 

There was a note in his voice that she heard with a 
certain trepidation. It disturbed her. 

“The modern man and woman always walk side by 
side,” she answered, trying to keep her voice quite cool. 
“The goddess on a throne is quite out of date. She got 
so tired of sitting aloft like Tom Bowling, poor thing. 
She has come down and begun stretching her limbs.” 

“Mrs. Marlowe,” said Burford Rees, who had crossed 
to her, “can I persuade you and your daughter and your 
brother to come to Lyndhurst for Easter? We are hav- 
ing some point-to-point races in the neighborhood, and 
my sister is playing hostess for me. Evangeline and 
Charles are coming, too. Had you arranged anything for 
Easter?”. 

“We were talking vaguely of going to Paris, but ” 

“Oh! go later, Easter is not a good time. Do come 
to Lyndhurst! There is going to be a Meet on Saturday, 
and I should very much esteem the privilege of giving 
your daughter her first glimpse of English country 
life.” 


103 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“It is very good of you, Sir Burford, but this is Veri- 
ty’s trip. Ask her. We are allowing her to lead the 
way. ’ ’ 

He sauntered over to where Verity, with a little in- 
voluntary contraction of the brows, was listening to the 
voluble arguments of Rex Patterson. He was just down 
from Cambridge, and as an ardent Fabian without a 
sense of humor, he was trying to make converts in season 
and out of season. 

“Patterson, my sister wants to talk to you. She 
wants to hear your views on Imperial Federation, and 
what your idea of a workable tariff is.” He dropped 
into the vacated chair. “She hates Patterson, and 
begged me to keep him at the other side of the room; but 
no matter. She’s the North Pole and he’s the South, 
and never the twain did meet.’’ 

“Didn’t Lady Finborough want him?” Her eyes 
opened widely, and then her mouth crumpled up at the 
corners. 

“Not a bit of it. Cora’s only idea of politics is ‘God 
save the King,’ and ‘Bring prosperity to the House of 
Lords.’ But you can’t dislodge a man like Patterson by 
a gentle hint. It would be like tickling an elephant 
with a straw. ’ ’ 

“Oh!” 

The soft color rose in her cheeks as she met his lazy 
blue eyes, that saw so much more than they seemed to 
observe. Usually the lids drooped over them as though 
the owner were too indolent to lift them up, but on 
occasion, they could narrow to a very cold slit of blue. 

“I’m to tell you of a change of programme, Miss 
Marlowe. Your mother has arranged to spend Easter at 
Lyndhurst— I’ve got a little house-party— and she wants 
to know if it is agreeable to you. ’ ’ 

“To me — oh! yes — of course.” 

“The countryside round Lyndhurst is supposed to be 
very pretty, although it’s too early in the year for much 
in the way of scenery. But we can ride — I have a horse 

104 


A SMALL DINNER-PARTY 

in the stables that is just right for you — just your 
weight. ’ ’ 

“Oh! I should love to come.” 

Her lips parted eagerly. There was a shy sincerity in 
her voice that pleased him, used as he was to perfunctory 
acceptances from bored men and women, who were sick 
of killing time in the social round. He told himself that 
she was the youngest, freshest thing he had ever seen, 
and he was quite sincere when he said: 

“And I — I shall love to have you come.” 


CHAPTER XI 


“no frenchman need APPLY” 

Undoubtedly Verity liked Burford Rees, but whether 
he had made any real impression Philippa could not 
know. Verity was in the happy, careless state of youth 
which is pleased with any one who is entertaining and 
agreeable. But Philippa knew her too well to make the 
mistake of thinking her shallow. She knew her to pos- 
sess a very deep well of affection, and a considerable 
amount of reserve, for one so young. But the sun shone, 
the world pleased her, and she was on a holiday trip. 
And Philippa found the life in London amusing, too. 

Evangeline Vicary had been installed in town for 
some time, and had gathered round her a circle of smart, 
bright men and women who did everything there was to 
do, and did it rather well and — expensively. Philippa 
had lived rather quietly in New York, in spite of the 
fact that more money is spent there in fashionable 
extravagances than in London. At the time of her mar- 
riage, and during the unhappy years that followed, she 
had withdrawn herself from her girlhood friends. She 
had tacitly let it be understood that she did not care 
much for society; she deliberately cloaked her husband’s 
and father-in-law’s meanness. Then, when she was free 
of them both, she found herself comparatively poor for 
the mother of a millionairess, and she had remained hid- 
den in her shell. 

But in that voyage over she had felt her girlhood and 
love of society revive within her, and although she told 
herself that she ought not to give way to it, and tried to 
appear indifferent, she felt as eager for pleasure and 

106 


“NO FRENCHMAN NEED APPLY” 


amusement as her young daughter. And when she looked 
in her mirror, even the closest scrutiny revealed nothing 
that could bring ridicule to her rather sensitive feelings. 
She felt young, and she looked young. As every one 
said, or thought, it was absurd that she should be chap- 
eroning a debutante daughter. Her face was marvelously 
free from lines, and the sap of youth was still in her. 
Her retired life had preserved it. She had felt while in 
New York that she never wished to marry again, but 
now she caught herself occasionally wondering if she 
were not missing a possible happiness. She had never 
really lived; was it enough to live only in the life of her 
daughter? And if Verity married she would lose her. 

Holt Vicary was obviously in love with her, and she 
had time and time again prevented him from speaking. 
Somehow, the thought that she had maneuvered him away 
from Verity seemed to spoil their friendship and his at- 
tentions. True, she had not maneuvered him to her side 
in order that he should really fall in love with her, but 
only that he should not fall in love with Verity. She 
looked at him as he sat opposite her in the Palm-Room at 
the Carlton, and wondered what would have happened if 
she had not interfered. They were having tea together. 

“Do you usually like young girls?” she said, abruptly. 

“Do I usually — it sounds like do I usually have a bath 
every morning!” 

“Well, love-making with some men is a matter of 
habit,” she retorted. 

“But we weren’t talking about love-making, although 
I’m quite willing. You never will let me get anywhere 
near the tender subject. I believe — ” he bent forward 
and tried to look into her eyes, “I believe you’re afraid 
of me.” 

“Nonsense. I am afraid of nobody, no, not I.” 

“Don’t misquote. Bad habit. It’s ‘I care for no- 
body, no, not I ’ ’ ’ 

“‘And nobody cares for me.’” Philippa’s mouth 
curled up at the corners. 


107 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“I care for you; at least, I would if you’d let me. 
Are you heartless, or is it that I can’t touch your heart? 
. . . I believe you’re afraid of letting yourself go. 
You are afraid of love.” 

“I don’t admit it for a moment, but if I were afraid, 
I should only be showing a considerable amount of wis- 
dom. I love my independence and my liberty, and the 
only really independent woman is she who is not particu- 
larly interested in any one man. The moment a woman’s 
heart begins to beat quickly at the sound of a voice, her 
independence is gone. She is at the man’s mercy, and at 
the mercy of her own passions.” 

“Yes, but don’t you think she gains something better 
than that frigid, detached independence? If she loses 
something, doesn’t she gain something?” 

He watched her keenly, and he saw a slight shadow 
darken the brightness of her eyes for the moment. Then 
she said, with a careless shake of her head: 

“A year has three hundred and sixty-five days, and 
one may live for threescore years and ten, but the enjoy- 
ment of love is often a matter of a few days only. If a 
woman could take love lightly, as a man takes it, and 
make it of her life ‘a thing apart,’ as he does, she would 
not need to fear it. A woman is usually very thorough, 
you know; she doesn’t ‘scrap’ her loves like a man does. 
He pulls down one house and builds another, but women 
cling to their houses even when they know they are built 
of cards.” She took a sandwich and nibbled at it. 

“Are you talking from experience?” he said, quietly. 
“If you are talking from experience I can say nothing, 
but if not — are you?” 

“That is not a fair question to ask,” returned Phil- 
ippa. “I — no, it is not fair.” 

“Not fair? Why you should think men take love so 
lightly, Heaven knows. Do you think I have scrapped 
many loves? Do you think I fall in love every new moon, 
and fall out when it is full moon?” 

He was rather angry; all the boyishness had gone out 
108 


“NO FRENCHMAN NEED APPLY” 


of his face and manner. Philippa began to realize that 
she was dealing with a man. 

“Do you think, because I don’t go about with sad, 
serious eyes, that I never take anything seriously? You 
have never let me talk seriously to you; you have always 
kept me bobbing about on the surface. You were only 
amusing yourself on the voyage over with me. Do you 
think I didn’t see that?” 

Philippa looked up startled. What had he seen? 

“Well, you — you were willing to play cavalier to any 
one, weren’t you?” she said, a little lamely. 

“Was I? What makes you think that?” 

She felt as if she were speaking to a man she did not 
know. She had always patronized him and treated him 
as a boy; and somehow, this afternoon, he had contrived 
to make her feel at a disadvantage. The “good dog, lie 
down” attitude seemed temporarily out of key. He had 
begun to growl a little. 

“Oh! most men flirt on a sea voyage,” she returned, 
evasively. “It’s as much part of a trip as the motion of 
the boat.” 

“I didn’t flirt with you. It takes two to make a 
flirtation.” 

“Well, you were starting on a very promising flirta- 
tion with Verity,” said Philippa, rather warmly. 

She felt she was getting the worst of the encounter, 
and she did not like it. 

“With Verity?” He laughed. “You dear, delight- 
ful woman! Why, I believe you are jealous of your own 
daughter. Verity and I struck up a friendship because 
she isn’t so cautious as you are. Do you know that you 
are rather an imposing person to meet for the first time, 
that you rather intimidate the ordinary humble male? 
Have you ever quite realized that? I don’t believe you 
have.” 

“It sounds as if I were a stately old dowager with a 
glaring eye and a forbidding manner! ’’exclaimed Philippa. 

He smiled at her across the table rather tenderly. 

109 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Do you know I have just begun to know you? I have 
discovered that you are often cold in manner because you 
are shy. Your dignity is often a disguise for your in- 
ward diffidence. You are like a child that has been 
brought up in an unsympathetic and repressed atmos- 
phere, and has acquired an older manner than her years. 
You are really a child, Philippa,” he said, audaciously, 
“you talk the greatest nonsense about love I ever heard. 
You don't know anything about it, but you’ve got to 
learn. I shouldn’t be surprised if Verity could teach you 
something. Why — there is Verity herself, looking the 
most joyful and delighted thing on earth. Gracious! 
what pleasure she gets out of life!” 

It was Verity entering the room with Evangeline and 
two men in tow. One was Rex Patterson, and the other 
was Charles. Verity had gone to lunch with the Vicarys 
that morning. 

The party seated themselves without seeing them, and 
Philippa noticed that Rex Patterson and Verity were 
talking with every sign of a good understanding between 
them. It certainly looked to the casual observer as if 
Patterson were very epris. 

“That’s Mr. Patterson, isn’t it? We met him at 
Lady Finboroughs. ” 

“Yes. But I think he and Verity have met several 
times since, at our house. He was of the party the other 
night when you were not well enough to go.” 

“Oh! Verity did not mention it.” 

“Perhaps she is shy about her conquests. I don’t 
think it is giving secrets away when I say that he is 
greatly attracted. Not a bad chap, I should think. 
He’s rather mad on politics, and intends to stand at the 
next election. Is the mother-bird getting anxious over 
her chick?” 

Even in the chaffing words, there was still a sugges- 
tion of supremacy. But she was too anxious to notice it, 
for, looking at the man, she was struck for the first time 
by a hint of the foreigner in his appearance. He was 

110 


“NO FRENCHMAN NEED APPLY” 


gesticulating rather more than is usual with the stolid 
Britisher, who thinks it bad form to punctuate his con- 
versation with gestures. And Rex Patterson’s eyes, in 
spite of his English name, shone with a Latin vivacity. 
His skin was swarthy, and he had a small, dark, wiry 
mustache. 

“Surely he isn’t quite English,” said Philippa, 
quickly. 

“No, his mother was a French countess of the very 
best blood, I am told; not a tuppenny ha’penny countess, 
with a reduction for a quantity, but something quite 
unimpeachable.” 

“Then he won’t do,” said Philippa, half to herself. 

“Won’t do?” repeated Holt, with a quizzical look of 
surprise. “Why do you say that?” 

“Nothing,” said Philippa, hurriedly, “only — only I 
think I don’t like French people much. I shouldn’t like 
Verity to marry a Frenchman.” 

“But he is nine-tenths English. Listen to his politics. 
And beyond having insisted that he should have a couple 
of years’ education on the Continent to learn the foreign 
lingo, the countess has interfered very little with him.” 

The son of a French mother, and educated partly 
abroad. Quite impossible. 

“I wish you’d told me before,” said Philippa, with a 
little air of helplessness. 

“What was there to tell? Philippa, as soon as I un- 
earth one mystery, I stumble on another. You really are 
a mysterious person. I need a sort of chart with you. I 
shall make one out with great care, and call it The 
Region Around Philippa. There will be no easy ap- 
proaches to mark; the ways will be difficult, and will 
bristle with obstacles. ... Do you think if one is 
dogged in heart one need have a dogged exterior? I 
never did. I used to be a sort of surprise packet in my 
school days. Maybe I’ll surprise you yet.” 

But Philippa was wondering how to head off Rex Pat- 
terson. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XII 


THE AVERAGE MAN 

George Bradley watched his sister from his seat by 
the window. He had been looking out at the wonderful 
panorama of the Thames in the spring sunshine, for the 
window of their sitting-room looked out over the Em- 
bankment. He had chosen that particular hotel because 
of the view. He loved the river at all times of the day 
— in the cold gray of the early morning, when it is chill, 
sullen, and prosaically businesslike; in the brightness and 
warmth of the midday sunshine, with the signs of life on 
it, and beyond it in the smoking factory chimneys; but 
most of all he loved it in the twilight of evening, when 
the lights pop out one by one, and there is a haze and a 
mystery over its waters that seem, like the smile of the 
Sphinx, to hide some great secret. 

Philippa was seated in a deep armchair, with a pile 
of letters that had just come by the American mail in her 
lap. George was holding a letter tightly in his hand, also, 
and that had an American stamp on it, too. He had read 
it once, then again, and then he had turned to the river. 
But now, having possessed himself of the news it con- 
tained, he turned to find out if Philippa had any news. 
She was staring, seemingly with an air of great absorp- 
tion, at a pot of pink azaleas, a little wrinkle of care be- 
tween her brows. George saw her bosom heave, and the 
faint sound of a sigh reached him. Philippa’s worries 
were his; he crossed over to her. 

“Yes, it won’t work this time, will it?” he said, 
teasingly. 


112 


THE AVERAGE MAN 


Philippa started and flushed. Evidently his remark 
had coincided with some secret thought. 

“What do you mean, George?” But she did not meet 
his quizzical gaze with her own. 

“He looks upon you only as her mother. You must 
accept the role for once, in spite of your looking like an 
elder sister. No, my dear, that is not the way. It won’t 
work as it did with Vicary.” 

Philippa bit her lip. Then she decided to laugh. It 
was impossible to be dignified with George. 

“I pity Veronica if she ever marries you,” she re- 
torted with feminine indirectness. 4 ‘A too observant man 
is just as tiresome as one who Is blind. In fact, I think 
he’s the more tiresome of the two.” 

George laughed good-humoredly. “The greatest gen- 
eral must have his reverses. But there are more ways 
than one of routing the enemy. Try another method. 
Surely Rex Patterson is not very formidable. But you 
are not his type, you see.” 

“He is full of ridiculous ideas; it tires me to talk to 
him,” said Philippa. 

“Most people are full of ridiculous ideas. I have 
come to the conclusion that one half of the world is mad, 
and the other half suffers from delusions.” 

“Am I mad, or do I suffer from a delusion?” asked 
his sister, sarcastically. “I am curious to know.” 

“You suffer from a delusion,” said George, promptly. 
“You think love is ridiculous, and that money is every- 
thing. That’s a delusion. But a lot of people have it. ” 

Philippa gave an impatient exclamation. She laid 
her hand on the pile of letters in her lap. “Do you know 
what these are — mostly bills! I owe a very considerable 
sum on the other side. That’s not a delusion.” 

George, from his perch on the arm of the chair beside 
her, looked down at her head, and his face changed. “Do 
you mean that? Why, Phil?” 

“Oh, I’m an extravagant creature! I like beautiful 
things, and beautiful things are expensive. If he hadn’t 
9 113 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


been such a mean brute to me — ” She broke off and 
gathered the letters together. “Oh! it was rather a 
stupid mail.” 

“Phil?” 

“Yes?” 

“Why do women always take the most difficult way 
out of predicaments? Why don't you take the easy path?” 

“How do you mean?” 

“Why worry so over Verity and her marriage? See 
here, you can marry Holt Vicary to-morrow morning if 
you like. Holt is rich and will be much richer. You 
need not worry about the money you will receive if 
Verity marries according to her grandfather’s will. And 
as for Verity, I have a sort of feeling that Verity was 
meant to be a happy woman. If she did fall in love with 
a man like Rex Patterson, and wanted to marry him, it 
wouldn’t be so terribly disastrous, you know. His peo- 
ple, I understand, are fairly well off — not wealthy — but 
then, I don’t believe Verity is very keen on money. Why 
worry and ” 

Philippa rose abruptly and went over to the window. 
“You don’t understand, George. I am an extravagant 
creature, and I must have plenty of money, but as you 
say I could have that by marrying Holt Vicary. But 
don’t you see I — if I accomplish a marriage for Verity ac- 
cording to the terms of the will, I shall feel that I have 
got something out of the old man. I shall take a delight 
in frittering away the money he left me — that he worked 
so hard for, and over which he killed himself. Verity is 
my child, and I want her to have the money. I suffered 
so much in his house that I feel the money a sort of com- 
pensation. If the money slips away into the hands of 
those wretched charities, I shall feel that he has cheated 
me and my child. It was an infamous will, but — don’t 
you see! We must get it in spite of the terms. I want 
that money he left me. I want to make ducks and drakes 
of it. I hope he will see it running through my fingers. 
Oh! if Verity disappoints me, I shall — ” She put her 

114 


THE AVERAGE MAN 


hand to her throat as though her collar were choking 
her. 

George listened in amazement. He had known how 
badly she felt at the time of the reading of the will, but 
he had not realized how she had brooded over it. The 
canker of her marriage had eaten very deeply into 
Philippa’s soul. 

“You are a good hater,’’ he said, slowly. “Aren’t 
you, Phil?” 

“You don’t understand,” she said, shortly. 

“Yes, I do. Only — is it worth while? Without 
preaching the doctrine of laissez faire, I do think some 
things are not worth while. Do you know the German 
proverb, ‘Gliicklich ist, wer vergist was nicht mehr zu 
andern ist?’ — ‘Happy is he who forgets that which he can- 
not alter.’ I heard that when I was a small child. You 
remember old Jacob Bendel, who used to give us ice-cream 
treats up at Brinckley’s, and whose face was a perpetual 
grin — he saw me one day when I was howling over the 
fact that a very favorite ball of mine had bounced into 
the road, and, a cart coming along at the moment, it was 
reduced to a limp piece of india-rubber. I remember I 
was yelling and howling for all I was worth. Old Jacob 
came along with his big cigar in his mouth, smiling at 
all the world, even at the mosquitoes buzzing round, and 
he said, ‘Ach, what is this that I do hear?’ I explained. 
Old Jacob put his head on one side, took out the cigar, 
and repeated the saying to me. Afterward I learned that 
it came from ‘Die Fledermaus.’ Even then it made an 
impression on me. ‘Kommen Sie, there are other balls,’ 
said Jacob, holding out his podgy hand to me, ‘let us go 
down to the stores in search of another.’ ‘It won’t be 
the same, ’ I howled, hugging the india-rubbery remains. 
‘Not at present, but it will be later on,’ returned Jacob. 
If you come to think of it, there’s a lot of philosophy in 
that remark. Dear old Jacob, I often bless him for teach- 
ing me that proverb.” 

“Philosophy never yet comforted any woman,” re- 
115 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


torted Philippa. “I will reply with a reminiscence of 
my childhood, or rather, girlhood. A quaint, shrivelled -up 
little man who gave us a course in Philosophy at college 
was once heard to say ‘teaching women philosophy is like 
throwing water on a duck’s back. At her first flap into 
the world it all runs off. ’ ’ ’ 

George laughed. 

“Philosophy is always good for other people, it’s no 
good to oneself. It’s the sort of thing you preach and 
expect other folk to practice. A woman like myself is 
much too keenly alive to be a philosopher. I don’t want 
to be beyond the reach of fortune. ’ ’ 

“It’s not so much that you’re alive, as that you’re so 
darned impatient,” returned her brother humorously. 

He looked at her as she stood tapping her foot rest- 
lessly on the carpet. She reminded him then of how, 
years ago, she used to stand in the middle of the nursery, 
passionately making her wants and desires known to a 
nursery world. He remembered her, with her dark 
abundant hair all in disorder — she usually snatched off 
the ribbon in moments of excitement, and threw it down 
as a sort of gage — her eyes burning in her white face, 
her teeth tightly clenched together. And this was the 
same little girl. 

“Phil!” he said, with sudden illumination. “I’ve 
got it! Do you know why you reject my philosophy, why 
you refuse to see reason? It’s because you’re so absurdly 
young. Yes, you are. Never mind your age, never mind 
that you have a grown-up daughter you are trying to 
marry to an Englishman; you are the youngest thing I’ve 
ever met. You’re still a kid. You haven’t lived yet. 
All these years you’ve been in a sort of nursery. You 
haven’t grown up.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” retorted Philippa, returning 
to her more dignified manner. 

‘ ‘I’m not ridiculous. You’ve hoodwinked me all these 
years, just as you have other people. You’ve acquired a 
fine carriage, a stately figure, and a general air of grown- 

116 


THE AVERAGE MAN 


upness. But that’s merely a disguise. You’re really 
younger than Verity. Upon my word, you are.” Then 
his eyes softened to tenderness as he put his hand affec- 
tionately on her shoulder. “My dear, do fall in love 
with Holt Vicary, or with some one else. That’s why 
you haven’t grown up. You’ve never been in love. Fall 
in love and — acquire some philosophy.” 

“Why do you wish me more ill luck?” asked Philippa, 
trying to speak lightly. But she turned her eyes away. 

Just then the door-handle turned with a sharp click, 
and Verity came into the room, followed by a tall, thin 
girl whose every movement was awkward. She reminded 
Philippa, who had already met Ada Patterson, of one of 
those cardboard figures that jerk out their arms and legs 
in obedience to a wire. She had a painfully long neck, 
and wore a low, turned-down Eton collar, like a boy’s. 
The style of her dress accentuated all her bad lines. It 
seemed to the two people in the room as though the new- 
comers had been indulging in a fierce argument, for 
Verity’s face was a little perturbed, and Ada Patterson 
wore a sort of “I am ready for all attacks” expression. 
Verity carried two thick volumes under her arm, and 
several pamphlets. 

Philippa greeted Miss Patterson languidly. She had 
not taken a violent fancy to Rex Patterson’s sister. 

“Where have you been, child?” she said, sinking back 
in her chair. “And what are those fat books?” 

“Mr. Patterson has sent them for me,” said Verity. 
“They’re on Socialism, and he wants me to read them. 
... I told you, mother, I was going to a Suffrage meet- 
ing to hear Miss Patterson speak.” She turned to her 
impulsively. “It must be splendid to be able to stand 
up as you did, and have everybody agreeing with what 
you are saying — I saw them nodding — and how they 
clapped you!” 

“But why speak to people who are already converted?” 
said George, “I thought these meetings were for the un- 
regenerate. ’ ’ 


117 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


4 ‘They’re for both,” said Miss Patterson, sharply. 
“Those who have signed are expected to bring along peo- 
ple who have not.” 

“I can’t understand,” broke in Verity, quickly. “I 
simply can’t understand — are Englishmen so terrible? 
Do they really treat their wives so badly? You know 
that woman that kept on talking about unpaid drudges in 
the kitchen, miserable slaves in the nursery? Why, in 
our country — in America — women are not like that, are 
they, mother?” 

“Most middle-class Englishwomen are unpaid drudges, 
mere slaves to their husbands’ pleasure; or, if they are 
unmarried, they are sacrificed to their brothers and 
fathers. Mrs. Morby was quite right.” 

Verity’s eyes opened wide. “Good gracious! I didn’t 
know that Englishmen were so bad as that! They seem 
so nice and attentive, and all the while, you say, they’re 
just — just slave-drivers, like those we used to have in 
the South.” 

Miss Patterson jerked her thin shoulders. “It comes 
from a man’s idea that the woman is inferior to him.” 

“But in our country, the men think we are superior.” 

“We crawl on our knees before her, and spoil the 
shape of our trousers in her service,” observed George. 

Verity was looking at Miss Patterson and speaking 
very earnestly. 

“I am simply astounded to think that Englishmen 
treat their wives so badly,” she said, taking off her hat, 
and running her fingers through her hair. “I never 
would have believed ” 

“They don’t always realize that they are treating 
them badly,” said Miss Patterson, reluctantly. “That’s 
the trouble. They treat women as inferiors even in their 
thoughts. Once wake them up to see clearly, and half 
the battle will be over. Women’s admiration and defer- 
ence have been like dust in their eyes for many gener- 
ations. We are trying to get the dust out.” 

‘ ‘You ought to come to our country, ’ ’ observed George, 
118 


THE AVERAGE MAN 


* ‘there you would find women treated as queens. We 
poor men have no chance at all, except to pave the 
ground, like Raleigh with his cloak.’ * 

Miss Patterson’s thin lips curled. “That’s just as 
bad in its way. ’ ’ 

George’s eyebrows went up in interrogation. “And 
I was beginning to congratulate myself that I ” 

“From what I can hear, you American men treat 
women just as dolls to deck and make fine. You regard 
a woman as a luxury, an expensive toy, something to 
hang diamonds and furs on.” 

“Well, you object to being a slave, and you don’t 
want to be a toy,” a smile hovered round George’s lips, 
for no one could ever have thought of Miss Patterson as 
a toy. “Now what do you want?” 

“We want equality. We want to be comrades. We 
want to walk side by side with men with an equal right 
to live and work. We want the right to our own indi- 
viduality.” 

“But we offer you more than equality. We offer you 
superiority, our respectful worship, our ” 

“Pooh!” said Miss Patterson, a little rudely, for 
Philippa’s quietly sarcastic regard irritated her, “that’s 
the old story. Woman, in theory, is on a pedestal. In 
reality, man is on the pedestal and woman is groveling 
at the foot of it. Do you know how women are classed 
for voting purposes?” She looked fiercely round at the 
three of them as she asked the question. “With ‘crim- 
inals, lunatics, and children.’ A pretty pedestal, isn’t 
it?” 

Philippa gave a low laugh, and leaned back more 
luxuriously among the cushions. “I can’t think why 
women want their rights. Give me their privileges! 
What’s the good of insisting on your rights with a man? 
It’s far easier to ask him to do a thing to ‘please you.’ ” 

Miss Patterson gave vent to another expression of 
exasperation. 

“Far easier,” she repeated. “Don’t you think it is 
119 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

degrading that we should have to coax and wheedle men 
for what we want?” 

She said it with intense scorn. Verity looked from 
one to the other, scenting the antagonism between the 
two, the pretty woman who always receives homage, and 
the plain one who passes unnoticed. 

“No,” said Philippa, with a little drawl, “different 
people fight with different weapons. What are our 
charms given us for, if we are not to subjugate man by 
them? Why was Eve made attractive? After all, a man 
works pretty hard for us, ‘down-town’ or ‘in the City.’ 
When he comes home, let him have his little bit of jam. 
It doesn’t hurt us, and he enjoys it. It’s very sweet to 
him. Why level a pistol of reason at his head? If you 
argue with a man you only get shiny in the face and 
hoarse in the throat, and he’s much less likely to give you 
your own way than when the powder’s on your nose, and 
your voice is dovelike.” 

“But, mother,” interposed Verity, eagerly, “if men 
really treat women so badly, if they do despise women 
and just make use of them ” 

“But do they?” said George. “Now, Miss Patterson, 
can you truthfully say that most of the men you know 
mistreat their womenfolk?” 

She hesitated, and gave a twist to her long, unadorned 
neck. 

“I am thankful to say that I number a good many 
enlightened men among my friends.” 

“You mean men in favor of woman’s suffrage?” 

“Yes. They recognize women’s claims; and, in their 
minds, they grant her equality. Rex, for instance, has 
always worked on behalf of women.” She shot a quick 
glance at Verity. “He would treat his wife properly. 
But then, our mother was one of the first women to 
work in the movement. He wasn’t brought up to think 
himself a lord of creation and the mighty ‘I.’ But 
take the average man, take a man like Sir Burford 
Rees” — Verity gave a little start — “how do you think 

120 


THE AVERAGE MAN 

he regards women?” She looked at Verity for an an- 
swer. 

“I — I don’t know,” replied Verity, rather confused. 

“That type of man treats women very lightly. He 
thinks women are made for his pleasure. If he ever 
marries, he will probably neglect his wife at the end of 
a year, and leave her to her own devices, as long as they 
don’t interfere with his. He is the type of man who 
regards a wife as part of the furniture of the home — a 
pretty piece of furniture, if possible. He thinks women 
are incapable of using a vote properly, and he talks 
about them being ‘in their proper place.’ And he is the 
average Englishman.” 

She said the last words with biting contempt. Her 
eyes looked hard and angry, and she seemed bristling 
with indignation. Philippa looked faintly amused, and 
at the same time a little irritated. She did not like the 
introduction of Burford Rees’s name into the conversa- 
tion. 

“At any rate, Sir Burford has charming manners with 
women,” she said, with a slight touch of malice, for Rex 
Patterson was by no means a preux chevalier in that par- 
ticular. He was usually too busy arguing to remember 
to open a door, or too engrossed with his schemes for the 
salvation of the world to pay the little attentions that 
women love. 

“What are manners worth?” demanded Miss Patter- 
son. “It is the intellect of a man that matters, his work 
in life, not the polish of the surface. The polish comes 
off in hard use.” 

“Do you believe in absolute equality?” asked George, 
lighting another cigarette. “I heard of a couple the 
other day, who, when they were married, each paid half 
of the registrar’s fees. She let him make her a present 
of the ring, but she paid half the price of tying the 
knot.” 

“Oh!” said Verity, appalled. 

“And why not?” said Miss Patterson. “I dare say it 
121 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


was merely a symbol. No doubt, he respected her the 
more for it.” 

“It seems to make marriage so — so prosaic,” said 
Verity, slowly. “Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve got 
what you would call proper pride, Miss Patterson. I love 
having little attentions paid me. Don’t you love having 
a man send you flowers and candy?” She looked ingenu- 
ously at Ada Patterson. 

The girl addressed saw reflected in Philippa’s eyes, 
‘nobody ever wanted to send you flowers or candy,’ and 
her thin face went scarlet. 

“That’s all very well for you pretty women,” she an- 
swered, evading the question, “but other women want 
their rights. They won’t sell them for flowers and 
candy. No one will ever do things for the sake of my 
beaux yeux.” She gave a little embarrassed laugh. “I 
am not the type of woman a man jumps up to offer his 
seat to. Do you think, for instance, Sir Burford Rees 
ever notices whether I am in the room or not? Do you 
think he would trouble to be pleasant to me?” 

“But you’re very clever,” said Verity. “You spoke 
splendidly this afternoon.” 

“My cleverness is only an aggravation of my want of 
beauty,” returned the girl. “Men hate cleverness in a 
woman, because when she is clever she is critical.” 

Just then the door opened, and a waiter appeared 
with a card on a salver. Philippa took it up, and then 
gave a little laugh. 

“It’s the average man — Sir Burford Rees! Yes, ask 
him up!” 

Ada Patterson’s face twitched, and she rose to her 
feet. “I must be going. I am speaking at a drawing- 
room meeting to-night. ’ ’ 

“Oh!” said George, “I was looking forward to an in- 
terchange of opinion between you.” 

“Sir Burford hasn’t got enough brains to argue,” she 
replied. “He doesn’t think about the question at all. 
The present conditions suit him. Why should he?” 

122 


THE AVERAGE MAN 


Sir Burford Rees came quietly into the room. His 
eyes looked very blue and very lazy, and there was a 
general expression of bien etre about him, strongly in 
contrast to Ada Patterson’s half-petulant energy. He 
was very well groomed, yet without suggesting any 
special effort or trouble. 

“It is very good of you to let me pay such a late call. 
I wondered if you would care to go to the theater this 
evening. I’ve got a box for the new Pinero play. I am 
sure you want to see it.” 

Verity’s eyes sparkled. She loved the theater, and 
she had not seen the play. She turned to Philippa. 

Sir Burford looked at her in her eager brightness, and 
thought again how young she was. What a thing of 
flame and spirit! He did not remember ever having 
come in contact with just such a girl before. He had 
known them young and innocent and very stupid, he had 
known them a little older, thirsting for pleasure, restless 
and excitable; but Verity was quite different. He never 
troubled to analyze people — least of all, women; yet, in his 
lazy fashion, he generally took away a pretty correct im- 
pression of people he met. It is a gift in some people. 
Without seeking to do so, or cultivating any powers of 
penetration, they can add up the human sum quite accu- 
rately. Burford very seldom made mistakes with his 
servants or his friends. If you had asked him to describe 
the character of any one of them, he would have been 
quite at a loss for the right words. He would have said 
vaguely, “Oh! he’s a very decent chap,” and at the back 
of his mind known a great deal more about him. He 
was quick to detect trickery or suspect a lie, but his ex- 
pression never altered, and the tricksters always went 
away congratulating themselves on their success. Sir 
Burford never had it “out” with people; if they annoyed 
him he quietly dropped them. He disliked verbal com- 
bat. He regarded acrimonious discussions as so much 
waste of time. 

“Oh! mother, wouldn’t it be nice?” 

123 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


Verity tucked her hand in Philippa’s arm. George 
always said she reminded him of a kitten, in the way she 
snuggled up confidingly against people. 

‘ ‘We were thinking of ringing up the Palace for 
seats,” said Philippa, “but this sounds much more 
attractive.” 

“Then that’s settled,” said Sir Burford. “And 
you’ll dine with me first at the Carlton?” 


CHAPTER XIII 


“AN UNSAVORY BRAWL * f 

Burford Rees looked at the blue envelope lying be- 
side his plate with a slight frown of distaste. He knew 
the writing well, and he had always disliked it as a 
specimen of caligraphy, before he had taken a dislike to 
its writer. Although he was a big man, and big men 
rarely give an impression of neatness, he was remarkably 
so in many ways. He wrote a very decided, regular hand 
himself, and Renee d’Almaine’s sprawling, loosely con- 
structed letters had always annoyed him. It reminded 
him of her desk, littered with papers, cigarette ends, 
gloves, anything that she wanted to get rid of at the 
moment. It had always been an eyesore in the days when 
he was wont to visit her frequently; for, for a time at 
least, Renee had managed to weave her toils around him, 
and he was too lazy to unravel them. In those days, he 
had been more susceptible to her big eyes, with their 
simulated expression of childishness and helplessness. 
She had simulated a great passion for him, and as a big 
dog will suffer the affection of a skye terrier, he had let 
her cling to him. But he had long ago seen through her 
little wiles and poses, although he had never troubled to 
tell her so. It was several months since he had visited 
her flat, and as he looked at the blue envelope he remem- 
bered that he had forgotten to answer her last two 
letters. 

He had just come in from a morning canter in the 
park, and he looked and felt as fit as a fiddle. The air 
was fresh and invigorating, and the gallop in the dewy 
park had made him feel that life was worth living. As 

125 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


he rode, he thought of Verity the previous night at the 
theater, and her naive pleasure in the performance. He 
saw her girlish form with its delightful slenderness and 
promise, and her small head with its wealth of hair, in 
which a silver ribbon was twisted. She would never be 
handsome like her mother, she would never be a stately 
woman — she was one of those girls, he thought, whom 
one can never imagine as a matron — and yet she had a 
certain dignity of her own. She was absolutely free 
from self-consciousness, and her movements, though quick 
and impulsive, were always graceful. 

He liked her, and he admired something in her. He 
did not analyze what it was exactly, though he knew he 
did not admire her for the reason he usually admired 
women. Sometimes it was beauty that attracted him — 
Verity would never be a beauty; sometimes it was wit — 
Verity was bright and sometimes talked exceedingly well, 
but she would never merit the adjective witty; once he 
remembered admiring a woman for her horsemanship, 
but he had not yet seen Verity ride. Yet he certainly 
felt admiration for her, although he could see no particu- 
lar reason why he should. He had known many famous 
society beauties, he had whiled away many an hour with 
brilliant conversationalists and with women who tossed 
epigrams about as a juggler tosses balls; he had been 
offered a good many hearts, some battered, some inno- 
cent, some atrophied, some accompanied by money and 
position; yet he had never before felt the faintest inclina- 
tion to marry. Was it only that he had come to a time 
of life when a man naturally thinks of settling down? 
He wondered. And yet he had found himself, several 
times during the last few days, spinning visions of a 
chatelaine at Lyndhnrst, hearing the flutter of a woman’s 
skirt in his home. He did not pretend to any particular 
sentiment about it, yet it gave him a pleasant feeling to 
contemplate the picture. 

His sister had always known, even in his wildest days, 
that she need never fear that he would bring the wrong 

126 


“AN UNSAVORY BRAWL” 


woman home to Lyndhurst. His sharp division of women 
into good and bad, virtuous and “wrong ’uns,” made 
that quite impossible. She had heard him express him- 
self rather plainly and a trifle coarsely when the young 
heir to a neighboring estate had presented his lady 
mother with a chorus girl as a daughter-in-law, and she 
knew that he would as soon have let Lyndhurst to a par- 
venu as make a mesalliance. Yet, in a general way, he 
was careless enough about his associates. He was demo- 
cratic enough to please the broadest mind, and to take in 
all classes; but with his home — with Lyndhurst — it was 
different. There were very many people whom he 
habitually entertained in town, at his flat, and at fash- 
ionable restaurants, whom he never dreamed of inviting 
down to his ancestral home. He often spoke of it as a 
beastly nuisance, an expensive and cumbersome white 
elephant, but, deep down in his heart, he was intensely 
fond and proud of it. No one in the world had ever 
heard him say so; he hardly acknowledged it even to 
himself. 

Renee d’Almaine had often expressed a wish to be 
motored down and have lunch there. But Burford Rees 
had always put her off with one excuse or another. He 
did not want to see Renee, even for an hour, an inmate 
of Lyndhurst. 

He ate an excellent and hearty breakfast before he 
attended to her letter. He threw on one side a pile of 
invitations — he was a very popular man — a couple of 
bills which he barely glanced at, and three charity 
appeals, before he picked it up. It was the usual story, 
only a little more urgent. 

“Do come and see me this evening, if only for a few 
minutes. I am so worried and unhappy. I must talk to 
some one. You haven’t been to see me for ages. What 
has your poor little Renee done? Do come and cheer her 
up. Why were you so cross about the dog at the restaur- 
ant? I’ll keep her shut up. But you must come. I am 
really in trouble.” 


127 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


It took him some time to decipher it, for it was 
blotted and almost guiltless of punctuation. All the 
underlined words set his teeth on edge. 

“Why will women underline their letters?’ ’ he mut- 
tered, reaching out for his tobacco-pouch. “Disgusting 
habit.” 

The letter had a faint exotic perfume about it, which 
seemed to fight against the sweet fresh smell of the big 
bunch of roses adorning the breakfast-table. The flat 
was always well supplied with flowers from the gardens 
at Lyndhurst, and Lyndhurst was famous for its roses. 

Just then the telephone-bell rang, and Burford, being 
at hand, took up the receiver. He usually let his man 
do it, for it is difficult to tell some one on the other end 
who has recognized one’s voice that one “has gone out.” 

It was unfortunate, and Burford realized it when he 
heard Renee’s voice. 

“Oh! that’s you, Buff, is it? I’m so glad you’re 
there. Did you get my letter this morning?” 

Burford said he had, but without any enthusiasm. 

“Do say you’re coming, Buff. I do so want to see 
you.” 

Burford explained that he was dining with Lord Lor- 
rimer at the Atheneum, and was going on to the House 
afterward. 

“Oh! but come late then. Oh! you must , dear.” 
Her voice was very plaintive and sweet. 

He hated the trouble of saying no, so he said a reluc- 
tant “yes.” “I sha’n’t be able to stay long,” he added, 
apostrophizing himself for having answered the tele- 
phone. 

She rang off quite satisfied. She knew that what he 
promised he fulfilled. It was a characteristic of Burford 
Rees, one of his few good points, his sister said. 

“I’m a damned fool,” he said, putting up the 
receiver. 

“I beg pardon, sir?” said his man Richards, who was 
clearing the table. 


128 


“AN UNSAVORY BRAWL” 


“I said the telephone is a damned nuisance. I think 
I shall have it taken away.” 

“Yes, sir,” agreed Richards, who would have agreed 
if his master had suggested having the roof taken away. 

Sir Burford looked at him, as, very correctly attired, 
his face a model of respect, he removed the breakfast 
things. 

“Richards,” he drawled, “do you ever contradict any- 
body?” Richards had been with him for many years. 

Richards looked up startled, marmalade in hand. 

“Do you?” reiterated his master. 

“Well, sir, my wife sometimes irritates me and ” 

“And you contradict her. Ah! you take it out of 
her, so to speak. ’ * 

“Well, sir, no, truthfully speaking, I can’t say she 
takes any notice. It seems to me, if you will pardon the 
liberty of my saying so, that wives don’t seem to take 
much notice when their husbands contradict them. They 
just go on as if you hadn’t spoken, or as if the cat had 
sneezed.” 

“Do they?” said Sir Burford, with a slow smile of 
amusement. “I didn’t know that. I imagined they 
looked frightened when you contradicted them.” 

Richards gave a discreet cough. 

“Go on, Richards. Expound some of your experience 
to me. So you don’t find any satisfaction in contradic- 
ting your wife?” 

“No, sir, I can’t say I do, but you must have your say 
sometimes. It seems to me, nowadays, as women has got 
a lot of notions of their own. Goodness knows where 
they get them from. And once a woman’s got a notion 
in her head — well, you might just as well try and uproot 
one of those old oaks at Lyndhurst. ’ ’ 

“It’s the stability of their nature, Richards. It is 
really only men who change their ideas. We pretend to 
give them that privilege, but they don’t want it. 
Women often pretend to change their minds, because 
they are as desperately afraid of having old-fashioned 
10 129 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

ideas as wearing last season’s clothes, but it’s only pre- 
tence.” 

“Very likely, sir, I am sure you would know. But 
sometimes their ideas pop out all of a sudden like a cat 
jumps down from the pantry shelves in the dark,” re- 
turned Richards, deftly sweeping the crumbs off the 
cloth. 

“Ah! that’s the cleverness of the creatures. They’ve 
always got their ideas well hidden up their sleeves. We 
men wear them on our sleeves for every one to see. 
They keep theirs for emergencies.” 

The telephone-bell rang sharply. 

“No, you go, Richards. I don’t feel like the tele- 
phone this morning. There are some mornings when my 
nerves can’t stand it, when it seems like an inquisitive 
maiden aunt, or a red-hot gimlet.” 

“Are you ‘in,’ sir?” 

“I don’t think so. Find out who it is and say you’ll 
see.” 

Richards took down the receiver. 

“Hello . . . yes . . . yes, ma’am. . . . I’ll see if 
he is in, if you will kindly hold the line.” 

'“I don’t want to talk to a woman.” 

“Very well, sir. It’s a Miss Marlowe.” 

“Miss Mar — Why didn’t you say so before? Let 
me come. . . . Ha-a-llo, good morning, Miss Marlowe, 
how are you? Yes, I’m flourishing, except for the in- 
firmities of old age. ... I’m so glad you like them. I 
told the gardener at Lyndhurst to send you up his very 
best. . . . Well, you’ll see them all a-blowing and 
a-growing in the conservatories at the end of the week. 
I’m looking forward so much to seeing you down there. 

. . . Yes, they’re busy turning nice, clean, useful cellars 
into dank, dark dungeons with a few bleached bones 
about to please you, and if we have time we shall dig a 
moat and rig up a ghost. . . . What are you doing 
to-day? . . . Good gracious, I should have thought the 
Tower of London was enough without doing the Guild- 
130 


“AN UNSAVORY BRAWL’ ’ 


hall. ... As I am not near enough to be annihilated by 
the glance of scorn from your eye, I’ll tell you a secret — 
I’ve never been to the Tower of London. . . . Not at all, 
you are doing me an injustice, if you could see me my 
face is all broken up with contrition and shame. I 
know it’s disgraceful, and when we go to church together 
on Sunday — we always go to morning service at Lynd- 
hurst — I’ll include it in the long list of my omissions. 

. . . It’s awfully difficult to remember one’s omissions, 
isn’t it? The sins of commission are so much easier, 
though I don’t suppose you’ve got either. ... Oh! have 
you? Well, look here, the first rainy day at Lyndhurst, 
we’ll retire to a quiet corner of the picture gallery, and 
I’ll tell you all my sins of omission, and you shall tell me 
all your sins of commission . . . you shall give me any 
penance you like. I’ll even toil to the Tower of London 
or the South Kensington Museum if you bid me. ... I 
shall come to meet you on Thursday myself, with a nice 
new car I want to try on you. ... Do you actually mean 
you want to break off a conversation with me to get off 
to the beastly old Tower of London? Hated rival ! What 
a blow to my vanity. . . . Good-by till Thursday then. 
... I do want you to like Lyndhurst. . . . Good-by.’’ 

As he turned away from the instrument, he was sur- 
prised to realize how much he did want Verity to like his 
home. He did not remember ever having felt so anxious 
for any one’s approval before. He was impatient, actually 
impatient, to show it to her; to take her through the 
small, but valuable, picture gallery with the Reynolds 
and Hoppner family portraits; to show her the famous 
Bayeux tapestries in the hall and the wonderful Chippen- 
dale drawing-room, to walk with her in My Lady’s Rosa- 
ry, and down the celebrated yew avenue, to the banks of 
the little stream where he was always tumbling in as a 
boy, to show her his favorite hunters and his dogs. . . . 
Why, yes, he was looking forward very much to Easter. 
Why, he asked himself? He had known many women 
whose judgment, if not better, was certainly riper than 

131 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


hers, women who were connoisseurs and knew the rarity 
and value of some of the heirlooms, and yet he had never 
felt that he cared if they approved or disapproved. As a 
rule, he troubled not at all whether people liked Lynd- 
hurst. Just as he said, “I am I, take me or leave me,” 
he said, “Lyndhurst is Lyndhurst. ,, 

At eleven o’clock that evening, he reluctantly left his 
seat in the gallery of the House, where a very interesting 
debate was in progress, and set forth on his drive to Tal- 
maine Mansions, where Renee lived. He had not the 
faintest wish to go, but he had promised, and go he 
must. It was a fine moonlight night; remembering Veri- 
ty’s admiration of this spot, he paused for a moment to 
note the fine effect that the outlines of Westminster Hall 
made against the sky. Then he looked across at the 
Abbey, a dark mass standing like a sentinel of the Church 
in the midst of her people, her tapering spires rising like 
suppliant hands to Heaven. The statue of Disraeli in 
the center of the square showed uncertainly in the light 
from the street lamps. The whole scene looked unusually 
fine that night, lit up as it was by the moon at her 
brightest. The flood of silver light seemed to touch the 
buildings with some magic quality. Burford Rees found 
himself wishing that Verity could be with him and see it. 

During his drive along the Edgware Road, he deter- 
mined to let Renee understand that this would be his last 
visit. She had grown tiresome to him. There was no 
thought in his mind of being off with the old love before 
he was on with the new. It never occurred to him. 
Women like Renee were a part of every man’s life, but 
when they began to bore him their day was over. She 
and her like were creatures of amusement only. He had 
nothing to reproach himself with. He had always been 
generous to her; but now was the time gently but firmly 
to disentangle Renee’s clinging hands from his neck and 
make them write “finis.” 

He rang the bell, and she came quickly in answer to 
the summons. She gave him, as he entered, a rather 

132 


“AN UNSAVORY BRAWL’ ’ 


plaintive, large-eyed smile that was carefully calculated 
to make the ordinary man feel like a rough brute and 
put him into an apologetic mood toward her sex. Renee 
d’Almaine had found this smile invaluable in her passage 
through life. 

“It is very sweet of you to come,” she said in her 
curious, rather affected voice, “but I knew I could rely on 
you. This is the chair you like? A whisky and soda?” 

She poured out one for him and one for herself, and 
he noted that she took a pretty stiff peg. 

“Whisky and sodas are bad for your looks, Renee,” 
he said, lazily. 

“I know. ... I look a hundred and five in the shade 
to-night. ... I saw a sick monkey once at the Zoo.” 
She looked at herself in the mirror over the white wood 
mantel. “I look just as it did that day, only worse.” 

She had put on a tea-gown of heavy yellow crepe em- 
broidered with sprays of white cherry blossom. Her 
fingers, very long, and inclined to be bony at the 
knuckles, fidgeted with the white silk fringe of the gar- 
ment. Round her hair she had tied a wide scarf of silver 
tissue, and at the side it was caught by a slide of topazes 
which gleamed with wild yellow eyes above her ear. 
The room was very carefully shaded, but to Burford the 
light was not soothing. In his present mood he felt he 
would have infinitely preferred the naked electric lights. 

“Why do you have a fire this hot night?” he said. 

“Is it hot?” she said. “I am cold. I was shivering 
just now.” 

“Circulation out of order,” said Burford, prosaically. 
* ‘Why don’t you take some exercise? Women like you flop 
about all day and expect to keep well. It’s impossible.” 

She lit a cigarette, but made no answer. There was a 
certain languid grace in her movements, a hint of volup- 
tuousness that was usually attractive to men. The smoke 
circled round her dark head, and the topaz slide shot 
malicious gleams against the hazy pearliness. 

She sat down on a low stool, almost at his feet, and 
133 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


looked up at him thoughtfully with her dark circled eyes, 
as she smoked. A volume of Maeterlinck’s plays lay face 
downward on the floor near her. Burford thought she 
looked paler than usual, but he was not sure. She 
always deliberately accentuated her natural pallor. 

He glanced round for the basket where the dog usually 
reposed. She read his thought. 

'‘I have sent Fido away, as you didn’t like him.” 

“My dear girl,” he expostulated, “why did you do 
that? I told you I wouldn’t have Fido brought to a res- 
taurant again, but I didn’t want you to get rid of him.” 

“You never liked him,” said Renee, quietly. “So I 
sent him away. ’ * 

Burford felt a little uncomfortable, as she meant that 
he should. As a matter of fact, his dislike of the dog 
had had nothing to do with her getting rid of it. Once 
or twice before it had snapped for no particular reason, 
and as she had received a very good offer for it — it was a 
prize-bred dog — she had closed with it. 

“Did you hear whether the girl who was bitten got 
over it all right?” 

“Yes,” said Burford, shortly. He hated to hear her 
name introduced in this house. 

“She was rather taking,” continued Renee, her eyes 
fixed rather wearily on vacancy, “quite a pretty child. 
... Do you ever wish you were a child again, Buff?” 

“No. I never think about it.” 

“Ah! you are lucky. I suppose men never want to be 
young again. It is only women who want that. I want 
it desperately.” 

“Oh! come, Renee, cheer up. You sit here and read 
and smoke and get into a morbid, unhealthy frame of 
mind. Haven’t you heard of an engagement? The stage 
isn’t a very healthy life, but it’s better than doing 
nothing.” 

She waved her cigarette toward the brown covers of a 
typewritten play. “Jarvis — Courtice Jarvis — wants me 
to play lead in a new play he’s got hold of.” 

134 


"AN UNSAVORY BRAWL” 


"Well, why don’t you? Don’t you want to?” 

“Oh— yes, it’s a good part. It would suit me, I 
think. They’re going to start a short tour with it. But 
he wants me to find £500 to put into it. . . . It’s a good 
play, I think.” 

She spoke carelessly, almost indifferently, as though 
she were discussing some one else’s affairs. She did not 
look at him, but watched the smoke of her cigarette curl 
upward with an abstracted gaze. 

“Is that why you particularly wanted to see me?” he 
said, quietly. 

She shook her head. “No, I haven’t been thinking 
about the play. I have been much too worried.” 

“What’s the trouble? Hard up again?” 

She gave a little laugh. “Oh! that’s chronic; I never 
expect to be without that trouble. It’s like a mole on 
your skin — it’s always there. . . . No, it’s a fresh trou- 
ble. ... I want you to advise me.” 

“Good Heavens! ask me for anything but advice. I 
beautifully mismanage my own affairs; don’t ask me to 
mismanage other people’s.” 

“It’s my husband,” said Renee, in her calm voice. 
“He’s turned up again.” 

Burford’s lethargic frame straightened itself in the 
luxurious chair. He looked sharply at the woman sitting 
like an expressionless idol at his feet. 

‘ ‘Your husband ! Why, he’s dead. You told me ’ ’ 

“Yes, I hoped he was dead. Hadn’t heard a word 
from him for three years. . . . No, he refuses to 
die.” 

Burford’s face changed, and putting his hand on her 
shoulder he jerked her round till she faced him. “You 
told me he was dead.” 

“Well, I thought he must be dead. But he’s been out 
in Australia, it appears.” 

“You lied to me,” he said contemptuously. 

“No, I really thought he was dead. Some one told 
me so. Oh, Buff, don’t look so contemptuous! I am 

135 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


heart-broken. If you had suffered as I had, you’d have 
hoped he was dead, too.” 

4 ‘Well, what difference does it make to you? Is he 
annoying you? What does he want?” 

Renee gave an exaggerated shiver, and seemed to come 
down from the clouds. ‘‘I met him a week ago in Bond 
Street; and since then he’s found out where I live, and 
he keeps pestering me to let him come and live here. I 
put him off by telling him it wasn’t my flat, that it was 
only lent me for a time; but I am sure he is going to be 
troublesome. ’ ’ 

‘‘He can’t make you take him back if you don’t want 
him.” 

‘‘He’s sometimes very violent,” she said, with a little 
gasp which was not assumed. 

“Threaten him with the police. Don’t let him see 
you’re frightened. After all, he’s deserted you for three 
years. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Y-e-s. ’ ’ She was evidently very much afraid of him. 

“Renee, my dear, don’t be so foolish. He is here — in 
London? Very well, get away from London. Look here, 
if you think this play is any good, I’ll put up the £500 
for you as a — a memento of our friendship. ’ 

He shot a glance at her; he hoped she would take the 
hint, for he hated to be brutal to a woman. She seemed 
down on her luck and unnecessarily worried, and he did 
not want to depress her more. Still, he hoped she would 
understand. Her next words showed him that she had 
done so. 

“You are tired of me?” she said, plucking at the 
white fringe. 

She rose with languid grace — most women would have 
made a mess of getting up from the low stool — and walked 
away to the window. 

“I think I’m getting old, Renee. I don’t believe I’m 
such an amusing companion as I used to be. It must be 
old age creeping upon me. ... Of course, always come 
to me if you are very hard up. I dare say I can squeeze 

136 


“AN UNSAVORY BRAWL’ ’ 


you out something. You know, I’m not a rich man, 
though I’m popularly supposed to be. I do all the expen- 
sive things I ought not to do, and I spend any amount of 
money I haven’t got — that’s the truth. . . . Give me an- 
other whisky-and-soda, and come and sit down com- 
fortably. I hate talking to a back, even a pretty one.” 

She came slowly over into the light, and took his glass 
to replenish it. She shot a keen glance at him, and she 
saw that his blue eyes were unclouded by any prevarica- 
tion. There was nothing to be gained by making a scene. 
If she did so he would only coolly walk out of the flat; for 
Renee knew he would brook no vulgarities. If she wept 
— no, he was not sufficiently fond of her to be moved by 
tears. As the soda hissed into the glass, she came to the 
conclusion that the best thing to do was to accept the 
inevitable. After all, she might be glad of his help some 
time in the future, and she realized that he had meant 
what he said about squeezing something out for her. 

When she handed the glass to him, he saw that the 
fatal moment was safely over, and he breathed a sigh of 
relief. He gave her a friendly smile. 

“Thanks, Renee. Now tell me about this play of 
yours. Who’s it by?” 

She sat down and told him a few details, and he dis- 
cussed ways and means with her. Courtice Jarvis was to 
come and see him, and if the rest of the money was there, 
he would put up the £500. Then he rose to go. 

“I’m sorry you got rid of Fido. You were rather 
fond of the little beast, weren’t you? Funny how you 
women like those little squirming worms. Give me a 
real dog, country-bred and full of dogginess. But have 
another worm, Renee. I know a man who breeds very 
good Pekinese. Would you like one?” 

She shook her head. “No, I think not. If I am going 
on tour, it might be a trouble. But — thank you, Buff.” 

She lifted her face to his. His hand had been on the 
knob of the hall-door, and it had swung open a little way 
before she proffered the caress. He could not very well 

137 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


refuse. And it was the last. He stooped and lightly 
touched her full, red lips with his own. 

Then what happened he hardly knew, save that some- 
thing that seemed more like a whirlwind than a man 
rushed against the door, and flung them both violently 
against the table which stood in the hall. Renee shrieked, 
and a couple of big Chinese vases bounced off the table 
and crashed on the floor. For a second, Burford was al- 
most dazed by the suddenness of the attack; then he re- 
covered himself and his balance. 

He saw standing before him a small stocky man, 
white with fury, his fists clenched pugnaciously, ready to 
do battle. He was glaring at both of them, but more 
especially at Renee. 

“So Fve caught you,” said the man, and his voice 
was thick and ferocious. It was also characterized by a 
strong Cockney accent, which agreed with the general 
aspect of the man. 

“Who is this man?” said Burford quickly, though he 
had begun to suspect. 

“Who am I?” said the man. “I’m her husband — I’m 
George Pollock. I watched you come in, and Pve been 
waiting ever since. I guessed she was at her old tricks, 
the lying jade. Said she was living with another woman 
in her flat. I soon found out from the porter that was a 
lie. Some one else’s flat, is it?” He turned to Burford. 
“I suppose it belongs to you — curse you.” 

The door was open, and two women were peeping in 
inquisitively from the stairs, the man’s raised voice hav- 
ing attracted them. 

“At least, shut the door,” said Burford, coolly, with 
a frown of distaste. 

“I won’t,” said the man. “Let all the world hear.” 

“Don’t leave me,” implored Renee, clinging to Bur- 
ford’s arm. “For God’s sake, don’t leave me with him.” 

Burford was furious at the trap in which he found 
himself. At the moment he hated her and himself. 

“You are mistaken,” he said, as calmly as he could, 
138 


“AN UNSAVORY BRAWL” 


but holding his head very high. “This flat does not be- 
long to me. I was merely visiting Miss d’Almaine ” 

“Her real name is Pollock, Lizzie Pollock — why don’t 
you call her by it?” 

“As you please. I was paying Mrs. Pollock a visit 
and ” 

The man burst into hoarse, derisive laughter. It was 
evident he had been drinking. 

“And do you always kiss the ladies you visit on the 
doormat? I saw you with your lips glued together. Quod 
hasn’t spoiled my eyesight, thank God.” 

Burford stared at him. Prison! That was what was 
so peculiar in his appearance. His hair was ridiculously 
short, and he had the unmistakable look of a jail-bird. 

He turned to Renee, who shrank from his eyes. “Did 
you know he was in prison? Why did you ?” 

“Of course she knew I was in prison. What, has she 
been telling more lies to you? She can’t tell the truth. 

She can’t run straight, she ” He made a sudden 

lunge at her, and got her by the shoulder. 

It was impossible for Burford to stand by and see a 
woman, any woman, physically ill-treated, and he closed 
with the man. The man was in a drunken fury, and the 
consequences were almost more than Burford had bar- 
gained for. They rolled about the little passage, and 
Burford had to put forth all his strength to hold his own. 
Renee kept on shrieking, and the noise as they lurched 
from side to side was appalling. The pictures fell down 
from the walls, and they found themselves trampling on 
glass and china. George Pollock was like a mad ox. At 
last, to Burford ’s relief, he heard a voice behind him. 

“Want any assistance, sir? We can’t have this noise 
going on.” 

It was the porter of the block of flats. He knew Bur- 
ford by sight, and many a gold piece had found its way 
from Burford ’s pocket to the porter’s. 

“Yes, help me to get this man out. He is drunk and 
disorderly, and has been molesting Miss d’Almaine.” 

139 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


The porter responded promptly. He got the man by 
the shoulders, and very soon they had George Pollock out- 
side the door. Renee quickly shut it behind them all, 
and he knew that at any rate for the moment she was safe 
from her husband’s attacks. 

“Shall I get a policeman, sir?” said the porter. 
“Will Miss d’Almaine charge him?” 

Burford thought for a moment. They did not want 
any scandal. Better let the man go quietly if he would. 

“No, let him go.” The porter reluctantly released 
Pollock, and, dazed and crimson in the face, Renee’s 
husband stood unsteadily on the steps. 

“Go,” said Burford, sternly, “go and don’t molest 
this lady any more, unless you want to find yourself in 
prison again.” 

Pollock eyed him with small, malicious eyes. His tie 
was hanging down his back, and his collar had burst away 
from the stud. He was a disgusting object, and Burford 
felt unclean at having touched him. He could still feel 
the man’s hot moist hands, his drink-sodden breath on 
his face. Ugh! he shook himself, and pulled his light 
overcoat into shape. 

“All right,” said George Pollock, slowly, with great 
deliberation. “I’ll go now. But I’ll be even with you. 
You’ve got the better of me now, but I’ll be even with 
you. As for her — you wait and see. ” 

He shambled down the steps, making no efforts to 
restore his appearance. A taxi was passing, and Burford 
flung himself into it. 

“Where to, sir?” 

“Anywhere, round the park. Anywhere where I can 
get some fresh air. ” 

All his fastidiousness was outraged, all his pride was 
besmirched. He had been a party to a common, low 
brawl. Probably George Pollock would summons him, 
or try to blackmail him. Never mind — only, for the 
moment, some fresh air! 


CHAPTER XIV 


QUEEN ELIZABETH'S ROOM 

For a few moments, Verity could not remember where 
she was. She knew it was not the familiar hotel bed- 
room. It was a room much larger and loftier and darker. 
And what was that fussy, chirping sound? Why, the 
birds, of course! Then the veil of drowsiness dropped 
from her senses, and memory and full consciousness 
awoke. 

She was at Lyndhurst! She turned over in the big, 
roomy bed, with its pleasant suggestion of a lavender- 
perfumed linen press, and tried to look round the room. 
But the drawn blind made everything indefinite and 
mysterious, and she hastily scrambled out of bed and 
went to the window. Up went the blind with a jerk, and 
the early morning sunshine flooded the room and the little 
figure, with its wealth of golden-brown hair, standing 
there, blinking and winking its eyes like a startled, fluffy 
owl. 

When she had flung a thick white wrap round her 
shoulders, she threw up the window, and, tucking herself 
into a little ball on the cushioned window-seat, looked 
eagerly about her. 

Easter was late that year, and the countryside had 
already begun to don its mantle of green. The green in 
the early morning sunshine was wonderful, so fresh, so 
tender, so full of passionate hope and promise, that 
Verity's eyes filled with tears. Verity loved the country, 
though she had spent very little of her life in it; and 
certainly never before had she seen anything so serenely 
beautiful, and yet homely, as the view from Queen Eliza- 

141 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


beth's bedroom window. Burford had specially arranged 
that she should have Queen Elizabeth's room, as it was 
called. He had explained the reason for his choice the 
previous evening, when she had arrived. 

“I have given you Queen Elizabeth’s room,” he said, 
‘‘because it has been the least altered and renovated. As 
a matter of fact, we very seldom offer it to a guest. Yes, 
it really was Queen Elizabeth’s room. She slept in it 
once for two nights, accepting the hospitality of one of 
my ancestors, Talbot Riverley Rees, and his wife, Dame 
Marjory Rees. I thought you’d like to sleep in her room 
and actually in the same bed.” When Verity exclaimed 
at this, he said, ‘‘Oh! we’ve made it usable with new 
springs and things, but the wooden framework is actually 
the same. And the paneling on the walls has never been 
touched. The old garden hat in the glass case is one that 
she actually wore here, and left behind her. ’ ’ 

Verity was charmed with the idea, although Philippa 
declared that nothing would have induced her to sleep in 
such a chamber, and that she was sure if the ghost of 
Queen Elizabeth walked it would be a malicious one. 

‘‘Perhaps the old Queen will come and shake you in 
your bed, as she shook the poor dying Countess of Not- 
tingham,” she had said. 

But there was another reason for Burford ’s choice of 
her sleeping apartment, and that was that the views from 
the windows — there were two, one looking east, and one 
south — were two of the finest to be obtained from Lynd- 
hurst. Lyndhurst stood on the summit of a rising hill, 
and though Burford Rees was not quite monarch of all he 
surveyed, he owned a very considerable portion of the 
land that rolled gently away for miles in green fields and 
meadows. The mild slopes and general waviness of the 
land fascinated Verity, for she was used to wilder, more 
untamed country. She had seen some magnificent pros- 
pects in America, vistas that had awed her to silence, 
and almost to fear. She had seen wonderful grandeur of 
beauty in mountain and lake, in cataract and gorge; but 
142 


QUEEN ELIZABETH’S ROOM 


she had never seen anything like the English countryside 
around Lyndhurst. She fancied that it smiled at her, 
and held out the welcoming hand of friendship like a 
fair, benevolent woman without guile or mystery. 

And this land that she was gazing upon had been cul- 
tivated for hundreds of years; cultivated by ancestors of 
Bur ford Rees, father and son, for many generations, 
when America was still practically unknown. For Lynd- 
hurst had stood there since the beginning of the sixteenth 
century — about 1518, Burford Rees had told her. She 
lost herself in her thoughts, as she sat curled up on the 
window-seat, with the panorama of southern England 
spread out before her. Her cloud of wavy hair, that would 
cluster into little curls around her forehead, in spite 
of desperate efforts to make it fashionably smooth like 
her mother’s, fell softly over the white woolen garment. 
But her eyes no longer blinked, owl-fashion, at the morn- 
ing; they were wide open now, and very bright — bright 
with dreams and the magic of history. She was peopling 
the grassy terrace below her with women who wore stiffly 
starched ruffs and farthingales, with men in doublet and 
hose, with the gracious manners of a by-gone courtly 
age. She recalled a description of Elizabeth that she 
remembered from her school-days: “Next came the 
Queen, in the sixty-fifth year of her age — very majestic, 
her face oval, fair, but wrinkled. She had in her ears 
two pearls, with drops; she wore false hair, and that red; 
and on her head she had a small crown. She was dressed 
in white silk, bordered with pearls the size of beans, and 
over it a mantle of black silk, shot with silver thread. 
Her train was very long, and the end of it was borne by 
a marchioness.” 

Then her dreams were broken in upon by a man’s 
voice, a voice speaking in intimate friendly fashion to 
his dogs, as only a dog-lover can speak "to them. 

“Now, Towler, old man, remember your extreme age. 
Why, you’re frisking about more than your grandchil- 
dren. . . . good old boy, aren’t you. . . . But your paws 

143 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


are beastly muddy, old chap. Moderate your transports. 
Come on, Snap, leave the birds alone. Let them have 
their little whack of life. ’’ 

“Let them have their little whack of life” — not one 
of Elizabeth’s courtiers speaking in stately phrase ! Verity 
leaned forward, entirely forgetful of her unconventional 
attire, and at that moment Burford Rees turned the cor- 
ner by the tulip beds. He was in riding breeches and 
leather leggings, a rough tweed cap on his head. If it 
was not the figure of a courtier, it was at least a very 
manly one, well set up, and full of vigor. Something 
danced in Verity’s eyes as she looked at him; something 
that seemed to brighten and yet darken their curious 
color. 

Towler caught sight of her, and barked. 

“What’s the matter, sir, do you — ” Then he looked 
up and saw her. “Hello! I thought I was the only early 
bird fluttering about this morning after the worm. 
Didn’t you sleep well? Don’t say Elizabeth shook you 
out of bed!” 

“No, I slept splendidly. Is it early? I didn’t know.” 

He pulled out his watch. “Six o’clock by my very 
reliable repeater, which is not Elizabethan. How do you 
feel this morning?” 

“Oh, splendid! It’s one of those mornings when I 
feel I could fly without an aeroplane or anything. Don’t 
you know that feeling?” 

“No, can’t say I do. I weigh fourteen stone, and if 
I’m ever required to be an angel, I think the heavenly 
powers must reduce my weight, or have a special engine 
made for me. Do you ever wonder how all the stout old 
gentlemen you see sitting about in clubs, and the corpu- 
lent old dowagers driving about in carriages, will look 
with wings? Funny sight, won’t it be?” 

Verity laughed. She had a delightful laugh, fresh 
and spontaneous. 

“If you feel like flying,” suggested Burford with a 
twinkle, “fly down, take off your wings, and come for a 
144 


QUEEN ELIZABETH’S ROOM 


walk. I should object to going for a walk with a woman 
with wing attachments, unless she folded them up very 
closely. They’d be worse than the awful things women 
wear in hats. Fancy having your best eye put out of 
action by the tip of an angel’s wing!” 

‘‘Shall I come down? But I’m not dressed yet.” 

‘‘Dress then, and come for a tramp. This is the best 
part of the morning. Do .... do let me catch a worm 
— or an angel.” 

‘‘I won’t be a worm, anyhow.” 

‘‘Then be an angel, only I ought not to have to wait 
for an angel to dress. It’s as bad as finding out she has 
an appetite for mutton chops. . . . Put on a very short 
skirt, because I’m going to take you over the fields, and 
the dew is thick on the grass. I was just going round to 
the stables. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour. Will 
that do?” 

‘‘Splendidly.” 

In less than a quarter of an hour, Verity was stealing 
down the broad oak staircase, where dead and gone Reeses 
solemnly regarded her from the walls. They were very 
wooden, and very cross-looking for the most part, but 
Verity smiled upon them all. A housemaid looked up at 
her in startled surprise, and hurriedly opened the hall 
doors for her. Verity stood still for a minute, looking 
about her from the top of the steps. 

When Burford Rees came along and saw her standing 
there, a small, almost childishly youthful figure in the 
big doorway of his home, a curious expression passed 
over his rather impassive face. It might have been de- 
scribed as almost a look of solemnity, as of a man who 
sees some trust before him, and is mentally registering a 
vow to keep it faithfully. It was a look very foreign to 
Burford Rees’s face, and it had never been aroused by 
the sight of any woman before. Then it passed away as 
quickly as it had come, and he called out teasingly, 
‘‘Don’t stand posing there in the doorway. I haven’t 
got a camera in my pocket. ’ ’ 

11 145 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


She danced down the steps in her short heather mix- 
ture skirt and Norfolk coat. She wore no hat, and her 
hair had been hastily bunched up in a coil. 

“We’re looking very young and just emerged from 
the shell this morning,” he said. 

“I’m eighteen,” said Verity. “It’s quite a grown 
up age, so be more respectful.” 

“Do you know how old I am?” he asked, suddenly. 

“No, I never thought about it,” returned Verity, 
patting Towler. 

“I’m thirty-eight,” responded Burford. “Does that 
seem very old to you?” 

She looked at him with an air of reflection. “No — 
only, of course, you make me feel very ignorant. Be- 
cause when one has lived thirty-eight years one must 
know a great deal. Why, it seems to me I have learned 
ever so much in the last year.” 

“And, like Oliver Twist, your eyes are asking for 
‘more.’” Then his eyes became reflective and a trifle 
bitter. “I wonder what the sum total of my knowledge 
is — of my thirty-eight years! I don’t believe it’s worth 
very much, Miss Marlowe.” 

“But life is a sort of big school, isn’t it?” said 
Verity, diffidently, “you go on learning all the time, 
don’t you? There are such crowds of books I want to 
read, and things I want to see, pictures and places — oh! 
no, there’ll never be time for all the things I want to 
know. ’ ’ 

“But you look very happy,” said her companion, cast- 
ing a glance at her radiant face. “Do you think more 
knowledge will make you happier? I haven’t thought 
about it much — I’m afraid my brain is a rather lethargic 
one — but I don’t believe one gets happier as one gets 
wiser. The happiest people in the world are those who 
don’t think about anything; who are just like Towler, 
ready for excitement when it comes, ready to go to sleep 
in their kennel, and who just look out on the world, and 
think of nothing at all.” 


146 


QUEEN ELIZABETH’S ROOM 


“Oh! no, no,” cried Verity, earnestly, “I won’t sub- 
scribe to that doctrine. It’s a horrid one. Why, we 
might just as well be mere animals, like Towler. You 
rate yourself higher than a dog, don’t you? Well, if 
you don’t think of anything at all, if you don’t store 
your brain with good things, you are on the same level 
as a dog. You talk as if you just wanted to— to get 
through life.’’ 

“Yes, I suppose that’s what it comes to,” he said, 
slowly. “I dare say it is a rotten state, but there are 
more people in that frame of mind than you think. . . . 
No, this way, we are going through the little green 
gate.’’ 

“Oh!” Verity stood enchanted on the threshold. 

She had entered a small, enclosed garden, full of old- 
fashioned flowers and herbs. On two sides, the enclosure 
was made by ruined walls, which she saw were of a very 
great age. Their crumbling masonry was overgrown 
with creeping plants, and on the irregular tops flourished 
clumps of yellow and red wallflowers. The garden was 
sweet with the smell of hyacinths, which were blooming 
in great profusion and beauty, while purple and yellow 
crocuses made vivid spots of color. Most of the other 
plants were not yet full grown, but Verity saw that there 
would presently be all kinds of sweet-smelling, homely 
flowers. Four small paths led up to the middle, where a 
sun-dial stood, its base covered with wallflowers. The 
place had a remote, Old-World air that was very attrac- 
tive. 

Burford smiled at her enthusiasm. “We call this the 
Nun’s Garden — it was a favorite haunt of my mother’s. 
She spent a great deal of her time here, attending to the 
flowers herself. ’ ’ 

“Why do you call it the Nun’s Garden?’’ demanded 
Verity. “May I have a piece of this — it’s sweetbrier, 
isn’t it?’’ 

“Mind, you’ll prick your fingers. Let me cut it for 
you. You know we’re supposed to have a ghost at Lynd- 

147 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


hurst? Oh! yes, it's the ghost of the Nun, and she is 
supposed to haunt the Yew Avenue, though this is her 
garden.” 

Verity begged him to tell her about it. 

“Well, you notice these old walls?” 

“They're very, very old, aren’t they? Aren’t they 
older than the house?” 

“Yes, they are. On this very spot there was once an 
old chapel which was already in ruins when the first Rees 
started to build Lyndhurst. Archeologists declare that 
there are probably some interesting ruins underneath, 
and that these walls are some of the oldest in England. 
But that has nothing to do with the story of the Nun of 
Lyndhurst. This is her history. She was a young and 
very beautiful maiden, and she was betrothed to an 
ancestor of mine. On the morning of their wedding- 
day, after she had entered into the bonds of matrimony, 
she discovered that he had a — well, morganatic wife 
in the village. She was horrified, and refused to live 
with him as his wife, and announced her intention of 
taking the veil, and retiring from this world. But, the 
next morning, he was found drowned at the edge of the 
little stream that flows at the bottom of the yew walk. 
Afterward she did enter a convent near here, but about 
a year after his death she, too, was found in the same 
stream. Ever since then, it is said, a nun is seen walk- 
ing in the avenue, crying and wringing her hands. I’ve 
never seen her myself, though as a boy my nurse used to 
frighten me with stories of the ghostly Nun. I suppose 
she is sorry for having been so harsh with the poor gen- 
tleman. ’ ’ 

“But he deceived her,” said Verity, gravely. 

“Yes, but she might have forgiven him, don’t you 
think? He was evidently sorry, or he would never have 
drowned himself.” 

“But which woman did he love?” asked Verity, her 
nose among the sweetbrier. 

“The story doesn’t say. Perhaps he loved them both 
148 


QUEEN ELIZABETH’S ROOM 


in different ways. The first love was only a common girl 
of the village.” 

He looked up from picking a pansy, to find her regard- 
ing him searchingly. There was a little wrinkle of 
thought between her brows. 

“Yes?” 

“I was wondering why men do such things, and ex- 
pect women to forgive them,” answered Verity, with 
unexpected directness. 

Burford was a little startled, but he was rather re- 
lieved to find that she was innocent but not ignorant. 
He always found the combination of ignorance and inno- 
cence rather tiresome. 

But before he could reply, Verity continued, “Miss 
Patterson says that if women more often refused to for- 
give, we should have a finer race of men. She says it is 
a false conception of duty always to forgive a man 
because he is a man. He doesn’t try to behave decently 
because he knows he has only to go to the woman and 
say ‘forgive me,’ and she forgives him.” 

“But women love to forgive men their trespasses,” 
said Burford, glibly uttering the usual platitude. 

“You say that, because you’ve always heard it said. 
You haven’t thought about it. I can tell that by your 
voice. You are what Ada Patterson calls an old-fash- 
ioned man.” 

“Oh! I say,” protested Burford. 

“Yes, you are. You expect a woman always to fit 
into your scheme of things.” She nodded her little head 
sagaciously. 

They had just passed into the Yew Avenue, a beau- 
tiful walk, where the giant yew trees met overhead, 
and where the gleam of the little river shone like a small 
silvery speck in the far distance. The avenue was quite 
a quarter of a mile in length, and was filled with a won- 
derful, green, brooding gloom. After the bright sun- 
light, it was like entering a cool cave. Verity stood 
still, and looked down the long vista. 

149 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Isn’t it too lovely for words — Nature’s Cathedral! 
Oh! it’s just out of sight,” she said in a low voice. 

He noticed, in the gloom, the perfect little oval of 
her face raised as if to the ceiling of a church. 

He laughed. “Just ‘out of sight’ ! That’s one of the 
few Americanisms I’ve heard you use. You know, I 
rather hoped you’d talk wild Yankee slang.” 

Verity drew a big breath of pure enjoyment, and 
threw back her head. “Oh! I’m glad I’m here in the 
flesh, and not a poor ghost of a disappointed Nun!” 

“So am I,” agreed Burford, heartily. “I’m most 
awfully glad. Don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a morning 
so much. Usually I like mouching about by myself be- 
fore breakfast, but” — he broke off, and turned abruptly 
toward her, “I should think you could be a good com- 
panion to a man, Miss Marlowe.” 

“Could I?” said Verity, a little unsteadily. 

“Do you only like clever men, brainy people who 
know all the things you want to know? Because I’m not 
worth a tinker’s cuss that way. I only read a few racy 
novels, and an occasional interesting memoir. Books and 
I were never very friendly. I always get fidgety when 
I’m reading. You see, I’ve got such a big body. It 
wants such a deuce of a lot of exercise, and my brain 
seems to get along without it. I dare say other people 
suffer,” he added, humorously, “but I don’t have much 
pain myself.” 

They had come to the end of the avenue, and flowing 
at their feet was a little sluggish river, with waving 
reeds on either side. There was a rustic footbridge 
leading across to the meadow beyond, where sleek, well- 
nourished cows were chewing contentedly. 

“This is where the poor Nun drowned herself,” said 
Verity, gazing down into the green depths. 

“Yes, this was her watery bed.” 

The gentle wind ruffled the soft curls at her brow, 
and the smell of the sweetbrier that she had tucked 
in her belt floated up to his nostrils, as he stood beside 

150 


QUEEN ELIZABETH’S ROOM 

her, leaning on the bridge. She was very fresh and very 
dainty, and he was keenly alive to her charm. But when 
he spoke again he made a most prosaic remark. 

‘‘I don’t believe you ever put the smallest dab of 
powder on your face. ’ ’ 

Verity threw back her head and shouted with laugh- 
ter. “And I imagined you were thinking about the 
poor, broken-hearted Nun and her cruel fate, and all the 
time you were merely speculating as to whether I pow- 
dered my nose!” 

“If you want me to be sentimental, I will be,” he 
threatened. “Shall I?” 

“I think,” said Verity, with a demure lift of her 
eyebrows, “I think it’s time we went in to breakfast.” 


CHAPTER XV 


“the primrose lane” 

The house-party for Easter was a large one, and 
Lyndhurst was full. Burford’s sister, Lady Finborough, 
was doing the honors for him as hostess — Lord Finbor- 
ough was expected at some vague time — and Viscount 
Overton and Evangeline Vicary came in her train. Holt 
Vicary, for whom Burford had a liking, was also a guest 
as well as his father and mother. George Bradley had 
naturally been included in the invitation to Philippa and 
Verity. The Millers, mother and daughter, were also his 
guests, and a few more people, including Revel Daw- 
burn, the famous K.C., and his wife; Rex Patterson; a 
Captain Falkner, who belonged to a smart cavalry regi-. 
ment and much admired Philippa; Laura Rees, a rather 
weird woman who called herself a Yogi, and was a dis- 
tant relative of the family; and a good-looking widow, a 
Mrs. Townsend, who had been married to a college chum 
of Burford’s. 

This Good Friday afternoon, they were scattered about 
the big hall, chatting idly as they drank their tea. The 
hall at Lyndhurst was one of the features of the place. 
Fifty feet long, with three bay windows rising the whole 
height of the room, it was a most impressive apartment. 
At the upper end was a fine oriel window, near which, in 
the olden days, the lord’s table used to stand. A mas- 
sive, richly carved screen extended the whole length of 
the hall, and there was a gallery, also enriched with 
carving which bore leopards in its design, as part of the 
heraldic insignia of the Rees family. The room was 

152 


“THE PRIMROSE LANE” 


paneled with oak, but rich tapestries gave a warm touch 
of luxury to the walls. Hunting trophies — for the Reeses 
had always been foremost in the hunting field — helped to 
furnish it. The fireplace was so huge, that the trunk of 
one of the great oaks in the avenue could easily have 
been put in it. The andirons were over three feet high, 
and the “dogs’ ’ were connected by a massive iron bar, 
which served as a rest for the fuel. The proportions of 
the room would have delighted any artist. Verity was 
never tired of looking up into the roof, which had origi- 
nally been an open louvre. Some of the tapestries, Bur- 
ford had informed her, were presented to Talbot Rees by 
the great Queen herself, and while she stayed there a 
mask had been given in the hall to please and entertain 
her. Her imagination had much to revel in at Lynd- 
hurst. 

Lady Finborough was holding forth from her corner 
by the fireplace, where some blazing logs gave a pleas- 
ant, homely touch to the scene. 

“We shall soon have no manners at all,’’ she declared. 
“The manners of the up-to-date girl and boy are dis- 
gusting — simply disgusting. ’ ’ 

“Manners are a luxury; most people can’t afford 
them,’’ remarked George Bradley. 

“What do you think I heard a young man call his 
parent the other day? He said, ‘Get along, old geeser, 
and don’t block up the gangway with your chunk of fat ! ’ ’ ’ 

There was a laugh, especially at Lady Finborough’s 
enunciation of the phrase. 

“Old geeser may be a term of affection among the 
lower classes,” remarked Burford, mixing himself a 
whisky-and-soda. “Don’t frown, Rex. I know you ob- 
ject to the term lower classes, but what else am I to call 
them?” 

“At least, you might call them the working classes,” 
said Rex Patterson, offering his cup to be refilled. 

“But they don’t work,” objected Burford, “so why 
call them the working classes? They always look hot and 

153 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


dusty, and so people assume that they’ve been toiling all 
day, and they’ve always got such prodigious thirsts that 
you imagine it could only have been engendered by vio- 
lent exercise, while all the time they’ve been loafing 
around, watching the upper classes on the treadmill. 
Those people are born with a thirst, and if you dropped 
them in a bath they’d still come out looking hot and 
dusty.” 

“What nonsense you talk, Burford,” said Rex, impa- 
tiently. 

His thin, keen face, was in direct contrast to his 
host’s, with its rather sleepy expression. Rex Patterson 
gave the impression of great intellectual activity without 
any mellowness of mind. Perhaps this would come in 
time. He scorned sentiment, declaring that sentiment 
was England’s greatest foe, and his very voice, rather 
hard, sharp, and incisive, was an index to his character. 
Like his sister Ada, there was something slightly aggres- 
sive about him. He could talk extremely well, when he 
chose. He was fluent without being verbose, and his 
very earnestness often silenced flippant interruptions at 
public meetings. That he had accepted Burford ’s care- 
lessly extended invitation for Easter had been rather a 
surprise, for he was not in the habit of paying country- 
house visits, and had for some time past discouraged 
such attentions. Lady Finborough was not without her 
suspicions. There were few things that escaped that 
lady’s elderly eyesight. 

“Aren’t you afraid your Socialist friends may mis- 
understand your presence here with us, Mr. Patterson?” 
she observed, eating a foie gras sandwich with consid- 
erable relish, now Lent was over. “ Foie gras now — 
would they consider it a necessity of life?” 

Rex’s mouth was full of sandwich. He nearly choked 
at the suddenness of the onslaught. 

“As a matter of fact, I suppose those people would 
hate it. Burford, try foie gras sandwiches on the school 
children in the summer — at your own expense. I always 

154 


“THE PRIMROSE LANE” 


imagine that Socialists live on carrots and boiled neck of 
mutton — I don’t know why. They look as if they did.” 

“If you will allow me to say so, Lady Finborough, 
most people have a lot of absurd notions about So- 
cialists.” 

“Well, why don’t you write a book on What Social- 
ists are Not. You can send me a copy, because my 
library wouldn’t keep it. They are most particular. Of 
course, if you Socialists set yourselves against the Word 
of God — ” with a quick assumption of her pious air. 

“But we don’t. Who said we did?” 

“The catechism says we are to be lowly and reverent 
to all our betters, and we are not to covet or desire other 
men’s goods.” 

“Christ was the greatest Socialist that ever lived,” 
declared Rex, rather heatedly. - “Socialism is the highest 
expression of His teaching.” 

Just then a diversion was caused by the entrance of 
the Vicar of Lyndhurst and his wife. The living was in 
the gift of Sir Burford; it had been given to the Rever- 
end Arthur Sinclair by Lady Finborough’s father, the 
late Sir Talbot Rees. She seized upon the vicar immedi- 
ately, before he could shake hands with any one. 

“Mr. Sinclair, come here. This young man is saying 
the most blasphemous things. He wants to say that 
Christ was a Socialist. I never heard of such a thing. 
You ought to be an authority on the subject. Refute his 
ridiculous assertion.” 

It was an awkward moment for the Reverend Arthur. 
He would not for worlds offend Lady Finborough; there 
was a still fatter living which belonged to the Finbor- 
oughs, and which he was desirous of obtaining. He tem- 
porized. He remembered a piece of advice his father, 
also a clergyman, had once given him: “When in doubt 
or difficulty, temporize.” 

“It depends on what you mean by a Socialist,” he 
said, quietly. “Perhaps Mr. Patterson will tell us what 
he means by it. * ’ 


155 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Nonsense, I won’t listen to him,” returned Lady 
Finborough. “Only very young, too sanguine people, or 
very old, disappointed ones, are Socialists. I hope you 
try to engender a right spirit from the pulpit among the 
people, Mr. Sinclair.” 

“Oh! yes, yes, indeed,” said the Reverend Arthur, 
nervously, in his agitation putting several lumps of sugar 
in his tea. 

“You shouldn’t take so much sugar. It’s bad for 
you. . . . This unrest and lack of respect for the govern- 
ing classes will be the ruin of England. And when 
people think they can govern themselves, they won’t 
want any spiritual guidance either. So your job will be 
done for, Mr. Sinclair.” 

“Yes — no,” fluttered the vicar. “Oh! I hope not.” 

“What do you propose to do?” demanded Lady Fin- 
borough. 

There was a stir and a rustle of excitement at the 
back of the hall, where the door leading out on the ter- 
race had been opened. Every one was looking up at the 
sky. Fragments of conversation drifted in. 

“Hallo! it’s an airship surely — or is it a balloon — no, 
it’s an airship — I wonder who is in it — it’s coming this 
way ’ ’ 

The words floated in to Lady Finborough’s sharp ears. 

“An airship coming this way!” she repeated. “I 
lay a wager it’s Finborough. Just the sort of undigni- 
fied way he would arrive. I never knew a man with so 
little sense of dignity. He’s no more idea of it than a 
Jack-in-a-Box. It’s all very well for the birds of the air 
to fly about, but a peer of the realm — it’s ridiculous!” 

“I hear your husband is quite an expert,” remarked 
Revel Dawburn, who had been listening with amusement 
to Lady Finborough’s attack on the vicar. “I think it’s 
awfully sporting of him to devote his time to the new 
science.” 

“Sporting,” snorted Lady Finborough, “it’s suicidal! 
A man at his age — do I look as if I could fly? — and I’m 

156 


“THE PRIMROSE LANE’ 


five years his junior! I know what he’ll do. He’ll prob- 
ably be caught in a tree on descending, and be smashed 
to pieces and upset Burford’s party. And I’ve just got 
all my new dresses for the season. I am convinced when 
Finborough dies he will do it at the beginning of the 
season. He always has been most inconsiderate to me. 
Still,” she added, hastily folding her hands in her lap, 
“God’s will be done!” 

Everybody had rushed out to the terrace. 

“Wouldn’t you like to see him — catch on the tree?” 
suggested Mr. Dawburn, with a twinkle in his shrewd 
eyes. 

“Be a witness of his tomfoolery — no, thank you.” 

“It may not be Lord Finborough after all,” mildly 
interposed Mr. Sinclair. 

“I am sure it is. He’s rented a flying ground some- 
where in this county. Good Friday, too! He never did 
have any sense of the right thing. ’ ’ 

The vicar, who had been aching to rush out and see 
the aeroplane — such wonders did not often come his way 
— checked himself at Lady Finborough’s reminder. 

There was a sound of cheering and clapping of hands 
from the terrace. 

“Ah! evidently spared to fly another day,” said Mr. 
Dawburn. “It sounds as if he had alighted safely. I 
think I’ll go and see if it is your husband.” 

The vicar watched him stride down the hall a little 
wistfully. But Lady Finborough soon started plying 
him with questions about the parish. 

It was Lord Finborough who had arrived in this 
unusual fashion. He stood in the middle of a clear space 
in the park, flushed with success, and looking lovingly at 
his machine. He was a small man, whom one could 
never imagine in repose — it was difficult even to think of 
him asleep — with the absorbed, intense eye of the enthu- 
siast. It was easy to see from whom Charles had got his 
spirit of fanaticism. The aviator patted his machine 
tenderly, as a mother might stroke her child; pride 

157 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


glowed in his eyes as he turned to Burford, who, with 
Holt Vicary and Verity, had easily outstripped the others 
in the race. 

“Isn’t she a little beauty? I had her built to my own 
specifications, and I back her against any machine that’s 
made. I wanted to alight on the terrace, but I was 
afraid of those trees at the side. How do you do, Miss 
Marlowe? We English are beating you Americans at 
this game, eh? I wonder your countrymen don’t take 
more interest in flying.” 

Verity won his old heart by begging him to show her 
how the aeroplane “worked.” 

“I’ll take you for a flight with me to-morrow,” said 
Lord Finborough, with the air of conferring a great favor. 

“No, you won’t,” said Burford, quickly. “I refuse 
to allow a guest of mine to break her limbs on my prem- 
ises. No experiments with my guests, please.” 

“Oh! we’ve long got past the experimental stage,” 
said the aviator, cheerfully. “If Miss Marlowe will 
trust herself to me — ’ ’ He broke off suddenly and bobbed 
quickly to the other side of the machine to adjust a 
screw that had caught his eye. 

Burford was standing beside Verity. She hesitated 
and cast a glance up at him. 

“Please — please don’t,” he said, in a low tone. 
“He’s always having smashes. How he keeps his own 
limbs intact is a marvel. I shouldn’t like you to take 
the risk. And I feel responsible for you here.” 

At something in his blue eyes her own fell, and her 
face flushed a charming pink. Holt Vicary noticed it, 
and wondered what Burford had said to cause it. An 
aeroplane is not usually a tender subject. 

“Well, will you come, Miss Marlowe?” called out 
Lord Finborough, cheerfully. 

“I think — not just now, thank you,” said Verity, 
after a second’s hesitation. “I believe I’ll wait a little 
longer before I fly.” 

“There’s no cause to be afraid. This machine ” 

158 


‘‘THE PRIMROSE LANE” 


‘‘Oh! Pm not afraid,” said Verity, instantly, with 
that little proud uplifting of her small brown head that 
Burford liked to see. “Oh! no, only — only mother 
might be anxious.” 

“Well, I was going to ask Mrs. Marlowe if she’d like 
a flight. We were talking about aviation the other 
night, and she expressed a wish to go up. If she would 
like to take a flight with me ” 

“No,” said Holt Vicary, sharply, “no, sir. Women 
are foolhardy — they love taking risks — but we won’t let 
you tempt them, eh, Sir Burford?” 

Burford grinned, and Verity laughed. 

“Not but what there are points about aerial jour- 
neys,” said Burford, his careless self again. “It’s one 
way of getting an uninterrupted tete-a-tete. If you took 
a woman up in an aeroplane, she’d be too frightened to 
say ‘no’ if you proposed to her. I say, Mortimer, old 
man, you can teach me to fly if you like.” 

“One might take up a parson and a special license 
and get the job completed,” said Vicary. “I begin 
to see vast possibilities in flying.” 

“I believe you, my boy,” said Finborough, seriously. 
“I tell you, flying is in its swaddling-clothes. Wait till 
it’s full grown, wait till — Ah! Charles, how are you?” 
This to his son, who had strolled up. 

“No damage done, father?” 

“Oh! what a cute machine!” cried Evangeline. “My! 
it’s like a lot of giant matchboxes stuck together. But 
what are you going to do with it? It won’t go in the 
stables or the garage. Say, Sir Burford, country houses 
will soon have to be provided with flying sheds to house 
their guest’s airships.” 

In the midst of the general conversation which fol- 
lowed, as to the difficulty of housing the big, ungainly 
monster, Verity found Rex Patterson at her side. 

“Will you come for a stroll with me?” he asked. “I 
haven’t had an opportunity of talking to you all day.” 

“Why, yes, let’s go for a walk before dinner.” 

159 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


They turned and walked for a few moments in silence 
across the grass. 

“Was that you I saw from my window this morning 
with Sir Burford, before breakfast?’ ’ he asked. 

“Yes. I woke up ever so early. The birds were 
calling ‘get out of bed, you lazy head, ’ and I had to get 
up. Didn’t you hear them?” 

“Yes, but I sat at my window reading.” 

“What! you read this beautiful morning? Oh! how 
could you, Mr. Patterson? It must have been an absorb- 
ing book.” 

“It interested me. It is on the question of small 
holdings and the abolition of all this — ” he waved his 
hand to indicate the park, “the feudal system, proprie- 
torship.” 

Verity looked at him curiously. “Are you interested 
in anything except — except sociology and economics?” 

“Yes, of course.” His voice changed a little. 
“Haven’t I tried to show you that?” 

But Verity scampered on. “You seem so absorbed in 
your schemes for the future that you don’t appear to be 
living at all in the present. I suppose I’m frivolous, and 
you must despise me, but I love all the common things of 
life, the flowers and the sun, and — and especially people. 
I feel as if I want to take the whole world into my arms 
and hug it. Lyndhurst is so beautiful, isn’t it? Don’t 
you find it beautiful?” 

“Oh! yes, I admit it has a certain charm. . . . 
There is a little by-path into the village from here. 
Would you like to go into it? It is rather a pretty 
village.” 

She nodded, and they turned down a little rustic lane, 
where the hedges were just bursting into leaf. The 
sides of the roadway were teeming with life. The ten- 
der, feathery fronds of the wild parsley rose from the 
thick grass which grew about a shallow ditch, and here 
and there wild anemones studded the greenness, like 
peeping fairy faces. The blackthorn was in bloom, and 

160 


“THE PRIMROSE LANE” 


the May was in bud. There were only a few early prim- 
roses open, but a profusion of buds made promise of 
springtime glory. Verity stopped to pick the little pale 
faces. Rex Patterson waited patiently for her in the 
middle of the lane, but as though it were an interruption. 

“Don’t you like early spring flowers?” asked Verity. 
“The spring flowers in England are so sweet! Don’t you 
love primroses? Smell them.” She held them up to his 
nose, and he rather awkwardly sniffed at them. 

“Haven’t much smell, have they? But primroses are 
not supposed to smell, are they?” He said it rather 
abstractedly, as though the subject were hardly worth 
thinking about. 

“Can’t you catch the perfume?” said Verity, holding 
them up to her own nose. “Why, they smell to me like 
all the subtle, intimate things you can never talk about 
and never express in words, all the things that are in the 
air and float round you in the day and haunt your sleep 
at night.” She fixed her eyes on him inquiringly. “Am 
I picking Sir Burford’s primroses?” 

She stopped and nimbly ventured into the ditch in 
search of another blossom. “Does all this land belong to 
him?” 

“Yes,” said her companion. “He owns practically 
the whole village.” 

“I should like to own a primrose lane,” she mused. 
She glanced toward the little village below, which could 
be seen through a gap in the hedge, and then she looked 
back to where the towers of Lyndhurst rose behind the 
trees. 

“I think it must be rather nice to own all this prop- 
erty. I should think Sir Burford must be very proud of 
it. Wouldn’t you like to have an estate like this?” 

“I entirely deprecate the private ownership of land,” 
returned Patterson. 

“Why?” 

“Because landlords, by levying taxes on the labor of 
others, are enabled to live without working themselves. 

12 161 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


The system is a wrong one. What we want is State own- 
ership of land, then England will be a very different 
country. All this rural depopulation would be a thing 
of the past. We should take from private owners the 
power of refusing to sell land. Men like Sir Burford 
Rees live on their tenants. What work does a man like 
that do? But of course you’ve never studied the condi- 
tions of land ownership in England. You see the fair 
surface of things, that is all.” 

They were passing a small cottage with a picturesque 
thatched roof. A child was sucking her thumb at the 
gate. Verity smiled at it in friendly fashion, and the 
child instantly bobbed a curtsey. 

“Oh! how sweet!” she cried. “Did you see her 
curtsey? Why, it’s worth coming over from America to 
see that. Isn’t it delightful? Oh! but I forgot, that’s 
what you object to. Why, that child looked very happy 
and well cared for. I — I don’t believe Sir Burford ill- 
treats his tenants.” 

“Oh! no, I don’t suppose he does,” said Patterson, 
impatiently, “but it’s the system that is all wrong. 
Why should that child have to curtsey to the lord of the 
manor? It’s demoralizing and preposterous. You, as an 
American, as a democrat — you ought to be one of the first 
to condemn it all.” 

Verity did not reply, and he looked at her for the 
reason of her silence. He saw she was looking at the 
little bunch of primroses in her hand, with an unusually 
thoughtful expression. 

“You know,” she said, slowly, “I’m only half Ameri- 
can. Didn’t you know? My grandparents were English, 
and, of course, so was my father. And I think — I think 
it must be my English blood that makes me love all this. 
It’s so different from where I was brought up, where I’ve 
spent all my life, and yet it’s curious, isn’t it — I some- 
how feel at home here, as though I had come back to some 
place I had always known. Directly we landed, and the 
train began to speed along the country, I felt as if I knew 

162 


“THE PRIMROSE LANE” 


it all. Oh! how can you speak so coolly of such a place 
as Lyndhurst? Why, if I had inherited property like 
this, I should be as proud as proud could be. I should 
keep up all the old customs, and I shouldn't want to see 
a thing altered. I should resist every innovation, I know 
I should. I don't wonder that Sir Burford doesn’t sub- 
scribe to your opinions. You see,” she added, without 
any malice, “it’s so much easier to talk as you do if you 
don't own an old country place like this. If you did ' ’ 

“I should still talk in the same way,” said Patterson, 
a little stung. 

“Would you? I shouldn’t, I know. After all, doesn’t 
land derive its value from having been cultivated for 
centuries? and the Reeses have been here for ages. 
Doesn’t that count for anything? And — don’t you think 
that it is better for a nation to have a leisure class, be- 
cause thereby they are able to support art and culture? 
I’ve heard Uncle George say that it would be far better 
for America if every one were not merely wage-earning, 
that if it had what you call the landed gentry, the art of 
the nation would be infinitely richer. I don’t know the 
subject as you do, Mr. Patterson, and perhaps I’m talking 
awful rubbish. But I’ve read some of those books you 
lent me, and somehow all the time I see the other side. 
I never could feel as you do. You mustn’t ask me to.” 
She made her profession of faith a little breathlessly. 

She had not meant to say so much, but somehow she was 
impelled to it. Was it the implied condemnation of Sir 
Burford that had prompted it? She hardly knew herself, 
only she felt it would somehow be dishonest to allow Rex 
Patterson to suppose she was in sympathy with his aims 
and endeavors. At first she had listened, vaguely im- 
pressed, and rather flattered that he should talk so seri- 
ously to her of his ambitions in life. His suggestion that 
she could help in a great movement, that she could assist 
him and hold out a helping hand to those in distress, had 
fired her quick’sympathy and generous impulses. She had 
earnestly struggled with the books he had lent her, and 

163 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


wrinkled her pretty forehead trying to range herself on 
the side of socialistic arguments. But, as she walked in 
the lane with Patterson that afternoon, it came to her 
quite plainly and clearly that her real sympathies were 
on the other side. And as for the man — somehow down 
here at Lyndhurst, in an atmosphere saturated with the 
tradition of centuries, with the ghosts of nobles and 
courtiers, with all that rank, birth, and breeding implies, 
he seemed out of place, and, to Verity, unattractive. 

“I must be a snob,” she said contritely to herself. 
But, indeed, as she had said to Patterson, she did feel 
curiously in sympathy with all that Lyndhurst implied. 
Rex Patterson was rich, his father was the owner of sev- 
eral coal mines, but money did not appeal greatly to 
Verity. 

Had Rex Patterson been older, and consequently wiser, 
he would have wooed her first, and convinced her after- 
ward. But, although there was a certain amount of 
subtle flattery implied in his intellectual camaraderie, 
Verity was too young not to feel a little chilled by his 
absorption in his work. She is a very experienced and 
rather disappointed woman who will calmly accept a 
second place in a man’s thoughts. She may suspect the 
existence of a rival more potent that the lures of her sex, 
she may even pretend that she does not grudge the time 
that he gives to that rival, but she always clings desper- 
ately to her illusion that she has first place. Verity was 
very young and eager for the sweetness of love. But she 
had never seen Rex Patterson’s eyes kindle at her coming, 
as they did when he was speaking on his favorite subjects; 
he had never said any of the foolish, senseless things that 
every girl loves to hear from the lips of the man who 
loves her. She realized that he was only an enthusiastic, 
rather serious-minded young man who wanted to marry 
her, but did not want to be too long about the wooing. 

‘‘I — I am sorry,” he said, realizing that her words 
meant more than the casual listener might have under- 
stood. She had refused his political opinions and — him- 

164 


“THE PRIMROSE LANE” 


self. He cared for her as much as it was in him to care 
for any woman, and, from the moment he had first seen 
her, he had wanted to marry her. 

“Oh! don’t be sorry,’’ exclaimed Verity. “We can 
disagree and yet be friends, can’t we? I am sure you 
are right and I am all wrong, but it’s no good my pre- 
tending to agree with you, is it?” 

She turned her head and smiled upon him so eagerly, 
with such a genuine desire to be friends and wipe away 
the sting of her refusal, that he tried to summon up a 
smile to answer hers. She looked to him at that moment 
like a charming child who has accidentally trodden on 
your foot and turned round immediately, afraid that 
it has hurt you. There was a quaint note of interrogation 
in her eyes as she looked into his, like the same child 
wondering if you are going to smack it or laugh. Pat- 
terson laughed. His visit to Lyndhurst had not turned 
out as he had hoped, but he was too manly to let her see 
his disappointment. 

“We’ll live and fight another day,” he said. “You 
shall call these cottages picturesque, and I’ll call them 
unsanitary; you shall enjoy the buttercups and daisies in 
the fields, and I’ll yearn to see them turned into small 
holdings; you shall encourage children to bob, and I’ll 
preach independence to them from the village green.” 

So it was that Verity refused a heart and share in a 
career. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A ROMANTIC HUMPTY-DUMPTY 

The next day, the morning of the meet, dawned gray 
and drizzly, and Verity decided to remain in bed until a 
lazy hour. She had peeped at the landscape, and, although 
it had a certain sad, mysterious beauty in the rain, it did 
not appeal to her youth as had the sparkle of the sun the 
previous morning. Nature was less friendly, more re- 
served and aloof. So she sped back to bed, and picked 
up her book. 

When Evangeline Vicary knocked at her door an hour 
later, she was still between the sheets, her head propped 
on her hand, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. 

“May I come in, Verity? I want to speak to you. 
Gracious, you look about two and a half, in bed. Your 
hair is real pretty. No one would believe what a 
quantity you have. It’s no good having a lot nowadays, 
though. No one credits you with it. Men only admire 
results, they don’t care how they are arrived at.” 

“Don’t they?” said Verity. 

“Men are so jaded nowadays that nature pur et simple 
no longer appeals to them. It is the day of the complex. 
That’s why all the horribly artificial women get nice hus- 
bands, and the nice, simple, sweet woman doesn’t get 
married at all. But that wasn’t what I came in to say. 
Verity, will you be one of my bridesmaids? May Van- 
derdecken has just lost her father, so she won’t be able 
to take part. I want you to have her place. Will you?” 

“Oh! I should love to,” said Verity, her eyes spark- 
ling. “Oh! yes, indeed, I will. How nice of you to ask 
me!” 


166 


A ROMANTIC HUMPTY-DUMPTY 


“I would have asked you before, only I didn't know 
you. I like you. You don't put on any side, for all that 
you're an heiress." 

"An heiress." The phrase struck rather strangely on 
Verity’s ears. Of course, she knew vaguely that she 
would be very rich one day, but she had never heard 
herself described in that way before. 

Evangeline looked round the room, having exploded 
her bit of news, and her face showed surprise. 

"Why, what a plain room! Fancy Sir Burford put- 
ting you here!" She looked at Verity quickly. "I 
should have thought he would have given you a much 
more elegant room." 

The one she occupied was one of the rooms that had been 
furnished in the modern manner, with luxurious fittings 
and appointments. To Evangeline, Verity's room looked 
cold and dull. She thought the oak paneling of the walls 
ugly and bare, and she infinitely preferred her elaborate, 
shining brass bedstead to the dark wooden one in which 
Verity reposed. The simplicity of the furniture, which 
accorded with the bed and the walls, she did not appre- 
ciate. She looked around in genuine surprise, for she 
had come to certain conclusions as to why Verity and 
Philippa had been invited to Lyndhurst. 

Verity smiled at her surprise, and it lay like a warm 
touch on her heart that Burford had studied her tastes 
sufficiently to give her the room that she would like. 

"I love it," she said. "Why, Evangeline, do you 
realize that Queen Elizabeth slept on this bed?" 

"Gracious! I should think it must be worm-eaten," 
said prosaic Evangeline. 

She had little reverence for age; to her the present 
was entirely absorbing. She voted history a bore, and 
refused flatly to visit old ruins or churches. She frankly 
yawned in the face of the past. It had no glamor for 
her, and she was genuinely surprised that such people as 
her future husband and Verity should find it so fascina- 
ting. 


167 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Lyndhurst isn’t a bad place,” said Evangeline, con- 
descendingly. “One could do quite a lot with it. Of 
course it isn’t so fine as Finborough Castle. That’s really 
imposing, though I don’t crack it up to Charles. You 
wait till I get it properly fixed up, and start entertain- 
ing. ’ ’ 

She gave Verity a sharp nod of her head. She looked 
eminently capable of running a castle or even a palace, 
as she sat in the armchair, facing Verity. Evangeline 
Vicary was quick in her decisions, and shrewd in her 
judgments. Without being dignified, she exacted re- 
spect. Her dependants and tradespeople realized that 
she was not to be trifled with, and she was never asked 
to put up with any insolence or inattention. Lady Fin- 
borough was a grande dame by birth, and always received 
the deference due to one; but though the future Vis- 
countess Overton would never be a grande dame , she 
would always exact and receive a different kind of defer- 
ence. She had the qualities of a good general, who rules 
without sentiment, and is not troubled with any misgiv- 
ings or vague emotions. Looking at her, Verity won- 
dered if Evangeline had any tender emotions locked away 
in her bosom. Did she care for Charles? Was she marry- 
ing the man or Finborough Castle? She had watched them 
together, and she had never seen any sign of endearment 
between them or heard any word of affection. The mar- 
riage was less than a month off. What did her wedding- 
day mean to Evangeline? 

“You are going to have a very big wedding, are you 
not?” she said. 

“Yes; it will be the wedding of the season,” returned 
Evangeline, calmly. “I’ve seen that everything is tip- 
top. There will be no shabby glory about this wedding. 
My dress is going to cost eight hundred pounds — and it 
will be worth it,” she added. 

The bride-elect put out a foot in a pink quilted satin 
slipper toward the hearth, where the maid had lit a 
small fire, and settled herself complacently in her chair. 

168 


A ROMANTIC HUMPTY-DUMPTY 


“It will be good experience for you to take part in 
such a wedding, Verity, ’ ’ she continued. ‘ ‘You’ll be able 
to see how things are done, and that will help you when 
your time comes.” 

“Oh!” The exclamation sprang involuntarily to 
Verity’s lips, and the color flew into her face. 

“Well, child, why are you making saucer eyes at me? 
You don’t intend to be an old maid, I guess? Anyway, 
somebody else doesn’t mean you shall be one.” She 
laughed teasingly. “In the short time you’ve been over, 
you haven’t done so badly. I had a great deal more 
trouble in getting a good parti. Still, I’m quite satis- 
fied. Charles will suit me admirably.” She spoke with 
as little emotion as though she were discussing the pur- 
chase of a new frock. 

Verity could not keep back her curiosity. “Evange- 
line,” she cried, impulsively, “how can you discuss your 
marriage so calmly? Don’t you feel a bit excited or — 
or — ” She hesitated for the word she wanted. 

Evangeline surveyed her with amusement mingled 
with a good deal of liking. 

“My dear Verity, I am acquiring a castle on good 
solid earth, not a castle in the air. Do you imagine every 
woman is as romantic as you? Do you suppose I look 
upon Charles as a knight in shining armor or a fairy 
prince? Do you imagine that, because I am going to 
marry him, I invest him with wonderful qualities, and 
wrap him up in a halo of love?” She looked round the 
room. “I don’t know what they did in Queen Eliza- 
beth’s days — I dare say much the same as we do — but, in 
the twentieth century, marriage is a very prosaic affair. 
A woman the other day called marriage ‘an old-age- 
pension scheme for women.’ Well, I’ve got plenty of 
money, but a woman doesn’t hold any position till she’s 
married. And anyway, I’d like to have some chil- 
dren. If marriage isn’t a trade, it’s certainly an occu- 
pation.” 

“But, Evangeline, you don’t mean that you don’t — 
169 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


don’t loV'e Viscount Overton? Surely, you love him — 
else how could you marry him?” 

Evangeline laughed. “Do you suppose that most 
people in our position marry for love? If you do, you’re 
mightily mistaken. Look at that girl — Lord Wroughton’s 
daughter — who married a man thirty years her senior the 
other day. Do you suppose that was anything but a 
marriage of convenience? Look at one of our own coun- 
trywomen — Vera Matthison. She is going to marry a 
French nobleman in a fortnight’s time. I expect you’ve 
been asked to the wedding, haven’t you? Yes, of course. 
Do you suppose she is in love with him? He is a thor- 
oughly decadent, evil-tempered man, who has run through 
all his own money, and wants to replenish his coffers. 
She wants a title, but she can’t afford the price of a duke 
or a viscount. Do you suppose her heart will flutter 
madly when she goes to the altar in a gorgeous wedding- 
dress? As a matter of fact, I happen to know that she is 
wildly in love with the Wrexham boy, who hasn’t got a 
penny. If she thinks of any one on her wedding-day, it 
will be of him.” 

“Oh, how dreadful!” said Verity. 

“Yes, I don’t think I could do that. If I wanted a 
man, I’d have to have him. But look at me. I don’t 
pretend to be in love with Charles, and he doesn’t pretend 
to be in love with me. That seems a dreadful sort of 
marriage to you. But I’m built differently from you. 
Don’t you know that most of the men who are worth 
anything put their business first, and women and the 
love-game second? Oh! I know love is supposed to be 
the big game, but it isn’t to most men. The big game is 
their work, their business, money-making, the pursuit of 
fame and success. If a man isn’t pretending to be in 
love with you, and you can get him into a confidential, 
honest mood, he’ll acknowledge that love doesn’t mean 
much to him. He isn’t going to allow a woman to spoil 
his prospects, or mess up the chances of the game. Well, 
there are women like that, too. Some men are incapable 

170 


A ROMANTIC HUMPTY-DUMPTY 


of falling in love, and so are some women. I am one of 
them. I was really meant to be a man, I think sometimes. 
I can do without all the soft things in life. I don’t want 
to be petted and kissed. It would bore me to tears. I 
should hate to feel at a man’s mercy through my love to 
him; I should hate to think he could make or mar my 
life. I happen to be a woman, and therefore my ambi- 
tions take a different form from a man’s. My ambition 
is to be a leader of society, to have a perfectly managed 
establishment, that shall be second to none in the country. 
I love organizing things on a big scale — I could have run 
an office perfectly — and I mean to organize my entertain- 
ing so that it shall become famous. I want to have chil- 
dren to inherit my money after me, and whom I can make 
efficient. Charles suits me perfectly. He is honest 
enough not to pretend to be in love with me, and he is a 
clean, straight, healthy man. If he gets a fancy for an- 
other woman later on, I shall pretend not to know it. 
Men must have their little amusements. But I don’t 
believe I shall have any trouble with Charles, and, of 
course, I prefer that he shouldn’t do such things. I 
don’t know what Charles’s ambition is, or whether there 
is something lacking in his nature — isn’t it strange that 
we always presuppose that every one is born with the 
capacity for love? — but I don’t believe he wants love in 
his life any more than I do.” 

“He has the face of an ascetic,” remarked Verity, 
who had been listening with knitted brows to Evangeline’s 
exposition of her position. 

“Yes, I suppose he has,” said Evangeline, thought- 
fully, as though she were considering the features of her 
future husband for the first time. “He is very depend- 
able. I am quite sure he will never do anything undig- 
nified or ridiculous. I should hate to have a husband 
whom I felt apologetic about, and who didn’t match the 
general scenery of the castle. Charles is a little sulky 
at present; he’s been allowed to dream in his own little 
corner too long, but he’ll be all right when we settle 

171 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

down .... It isn’t your idea of married life, is it, 
Verity?” 

“No,” confessed Verity, “it isn’t. But then — — ” 

“Then you’re built differently. You know, honey, 
you always remind me of a Watteau shepherdess. I can 
imagine you with one of those ridiculous little hats 
perched on your head, and streamers flying, and your 
little figure in one of those long pointed bodices and puffy 
paniers, and gallants at your feet swearing eternal de- 
votion! One can’t expect a shepherdess to look upon mar- 
riage as an old-age pension or its equivalent. . . . Why,” 
as a sudden burst of sunlight irradiated the room, “it’s 
going to be fine, after all ! And it’s time you were up and 
having your bath, and I was having my hair dressed. I 
hear you’re a very fine horsewoman. I can always man- 
age any horse, but I am never particularly happy in the 
saddle. Well, I’m glad we’ve settled that about the 
wedding. I hate having things disarranged.” 

She looked at Verity, who had sprung out of bed and 
was tucking herself into a bath-robe. The slim, young 
lines of her figure were charmingly apparent as she hur- 
riedly bound the garment round her. Her visitor, al- 
though only five years her senior, felt immeasurably 
older, for there was something very fresh about Verity, 
that could not fail to impress any one. Her complexion 
was like a wild rose, with here and there a little golden 
freckle where the sun had amorously kissed her. And 
there was something that sparkled in the eyes, that lurked 
in the curve of the lips that made Evangeline feel mo- 
mentarily as if she had missed something in her way 
through life. She told herself that Verity was a roman- 
tic idiot, and yet — Then the mood passed, and Evan- 
geline was her practical self again. 

“Verity,” she said, on her way to the door. 

“Yes?” said Verity, screwing up her hair with one 
big tortoise-shell hairpin. 

“Do try and get out of the habit of looking upon this 
life as a fairy-tale. I am sure it will lead you into mis- 

172 


A ROMANTIC HUMPTY-DUMPTY 


chief. Do let your fairy prince lead the ordinary life of 
an ordinary man. Pm not an idealist, and perhaps some 
people are better than I think they are. But they are not 
so good as you think they are. Don’t make an ordinary 
man into a god. It isn’t fair to him, and you’ll only 
hurt yourself. Romantic Humpty-Dumptys always have 
a great fall. Some people would say that it’s better to 
have fallen from a high wall than never to have sat upon 
one at all. 1 don’t know, but I guess it hurts some. 
The earth is apt to be a bit unsympathetic. So beware, 
my dear!” 

With this parting shot, Evangeline vanished through 
the door. Verity stood still a moment in front of the 
toilet table. She was groping after Evangeline’s mean- 
ing. Why had she delivered this little homily? It had 
certainly been meant in a kindly spirit, for Verity had 
recognized the ring of sincerity in her voice, and, in 
spite of her funny phrasing, she knew Evangeline had 
been trying to warn her against something. 

“Do I idealize people?” she asked herself in Queen 
Elizabeth’s chamber. “Do I behave like a sentimental 
school-girl?” 

She looked at herself in the glass. She was rather 
quaint, with her hair pulled off her face and hastily 
knotted. “Verity, you must be more sedate. Evidently 
you have been wanting in dignity. Remember that you 
have come to years of discretion.” 

A bird on a tree outside burst into song, because the 
sun had chased the rain away. Like a sun worshiper of 
old, he chanted his little lay, and something in Verity 
sang a little song of thanksgiving, too, for all the good 
things of this best of worlds. Evangeline’s words were 
forgotten and left unheeded. Caution! what an ugly, 
utilitarian word, only fit for old people and dyspeptics! 
Away with it! Survey your world from the top of the 
wall, for it is good to look upon. There is the blue sky 
above you, and the glory of the sun, and below you is a 
garden of flowers and birds, running water and green 

173 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


grass. There is the magic of spring in the air, magic 
that makes the pulses leap for — what? Ah, who can tell 
what may happen in such a wonderful world, when the 
sun and the earth are full of infinite promise, when 
the air is full of strange messages, and every one is 
young! 


CHAPTER XVII 


“ TALLY-HO ! ” 

There is something typically English about fox-hunt- 
ing; something that inevitably recalls the days when life 
was a more picturesque, less strenuous affair, when 
supersubtie refinements and the neurotic ideas of modern 
life were unknown, or limited to the very few. The 
sight of the huntsmen riding to the meet, their scarlet 
coats glimmering in and out among the trees, gave Veri- 
ty a thrill of excitement. 

“It’s just like a scene from those old Christmas num- 
bers grandfather used to have in his study, isn’t it, 
mother?” 

They were standing on the terrace, waiting for their 
horses to be brought round. Below them, the huntsmen 
were assembling, and the usual crowd of lookers-on was 
straggling across the grass. The sun had repented of its 
early morning depression, and was making up for lost 
time. The sound of laughter and cheery talk made a 
pleasant humming sound in the air. The glossy flanks of 
the horses shone in the sunlight. 

“ Pretty sight, isn’t it?” said Revel Dawburn, who 
had strolled up to them. “And a new one to you, eh, 
Miss Marlowe?” 

“Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Verity. 

“My hunting days are over, I’m sorry to say. I only 
hunt a small white ball over a golf course nowadays. 
But I envy you. There’s no feeling on earth so good as 
that which comes over you when, the run over, you 
tumble into a hot bath, and then lounge about after- 

175 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


ward, pleased with yourself and the whole world! You 
feel as though you had discharged all your duties in life, 
and the whole world were shaking you by the hand and 
calling you a good fellow. . . . It's curious how physical 
exercises produce a moral glow. I don’t believe one ever 
gets the same amount of satisfaction from a good action. 
Ah! here comes Sir Burford. He’s the M.F.H., you 
know. Looks well, doesn’t he?” 

The last remark was deserved, for Burford Rees un- 
doubtedly looked his best on horseback. In his “pink” 
coat and velvet cap, mounted on his favorite hunter, 
a magnificent chestnut, he was as fine a specimen of 
English manhood as one could see. In a few years’ time 
his figure might incline to heaviness; his sister said he 
would “spread.” But at present his height — he was well 
over six feet — carried off triumphantly his superfluous 
weight. He sat his horse unusually well, though in the 
drawing-room he was apt to slacken and lounge. 

The hounds ran about restlessly, eager to be off on the 
scent. By this time a large gathering of men and 
women, with whom Sir Burford exchanged greetings, 
had assembled. Evidently he was very popular. A 
groom came round the bend of the long terrace, leading 
a couple of horses. 

“Ah, here they are!” cried Verity, joyfully. 

“Well, I hope you’ll have a good run. I should think 
it would be good going this morning.” 

They descended the steps of the terrace, Verity dan- 
cing forward to meet the groom. Philippa, whose 
Junoesque proportions showed to advantage in her riding 
habit, followed more slowly. 

“She’s rather a nice little thing,” said a high- 
pitched, rather monotonous voice at Dawburn’s elbow. 

He turned to find Laura Rees, “the Yogi lady,” as 
he called her, standing beside him. She was not follow- 
ing the hounds, either. She said that violent physical 
exercise interfered with her peculiar form of mental 
culture. 


176 


“TALLY-HO!” 


‘ ‘A nice little thing, ’ ’ echoed Dawburn. "Something 
more than that, don't you think? That sounds like an 
amiable nothing in petticoats. Miss Marlowe is a good 
deal more than that.” 

"Oh, do you think so?” queried Miss Rees. 

She had an extraordinarily long face, which fell into 
hollows at the cheek-bones, and she looped her hair cur- 
tain fashion over her ears, thus accentuating the charac- 
teristics of her physiognomy. Her eyes, a dull black, 
habitually wore a look of painful abstraction, and she 
had a curious trick of turning them heavenward as she 
talked, and showing a thin line of white under the 
pupils. Report said that she had once in her unregener- 
ate days fixed her affections on Burford. She was of the 
same age as he, but now always spoke as though he were 
many years her senior. "No, Burford, I can't remem- 
ber, it was before my time,” she would say. 

"Well, she’s quite bright,” conceded Miss Rees, 
"and, for an American, wonderfully refined. Americans 
are usually so blatant, aren't they? They talk as though 
they were trying to fill the Albert Hall, and when they’re 
not talking their dollars shriek for them. I always 
think of America as one big scream! Still, I will say 
that the Marlowes are both above the average. ' ' 

"That’s kind and broad-minded of you,” put in Daw- 
burn, quietly. 

"Oh! except for the noise they make, I don’t mind the 
American invasion. I was telling my brother the other 
day that he had better find an American heiress. But he 
says his nerves are too delicate. Of course, some Ameri- 
can wives do lead their English husbands a dance, there’s 
no doubt about that. Look at Lord Altrim. They say 
he doesn’t dare even to think, and she won’t allow him 
to choose his own pyjamas! Still, I should say that Miss 
Marlowe wasn’t that sort. She doesn’t seem to have any 
will of her own. She would probably always say ‘yes, 
dear,’ and ‘no, dear,’ in the right places.” 

"Oh! would she?” said Dawburn. "I venture to 
13 177 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


think quite otherwise. She is capable of showing a good 
deal of independent judgment, or I am much mistaken. 
There’s some very fine steel under that softness and 
velvet. She belongs to the best type of woman — the 
woman who takes things lightly till there is a real 
necessity to take them seriously, who plays in the sun 
happily till circumstances call her into graver light. 
She doesn’t waste her strength splitting hairs — she would 
never trouble to quarrel over small things — but she keeps 
it in reserve for a crisis. Oh! I’m sorry for the man 
who reckons on Miss Marlowe’s complaisance and ‘wifely 
submission.’ ” 

“You see her quite differently from what I do,” re- 
turned Miss Rees, patting the curtains around her face. 
“The mother, now, is different. I should say a great 
strength of will, a strong character, a ’ ’ 

Dawburn laughed. 4 ‘Again, you haven’t looked below 
the surface. A fine-looking woman like Mrs. Marlowe 
ought to possess a strong will, a remarkable personality; 
a little creature of fire and flame like her daughter ought 
to be yielding, ultra-feminine. As a matter of fact, they 
are each what, to the casual observer, they don’t appear 
to be. Mrs. Marlowe, I should say, hasn’t half the 
strength of mind and will of her daughter. She would 
acquiesce where Miss Marlowe would fight. She would 
give a reluctant ‘yes’ where her daughter would give a 
good, sound ‘no.’ ” 

“Well, I suppose Burford means to marry at last,” 
said Miss Rees rather acidly, as they watched the meet 
disappear in the distance. “I must say I never thought 
Burford would marry a raw girl, but there — money 
talks. I expect he will keep her in the background. I 
believe he is still devoted to Lady Margetson.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Of course, if she had had money, or Burford had had 
some, they would have married long ago, and she 
wouldn’t have had to marry that awful old man. That’s 
the sort of woman he ought to marry— a woman of the 

178 


“TALLY-HO!” 


world to her finger-tips. She understands men and their 
little ways.” 

“So I should imagine,” said Dawburn, dryly. 

He knew Lady Margetson by reputation. She had 
married a rich old man with one foot in the grave, and 
since her marriage she had flared through society like a 
brilliant comet, with a long trail of lovers behind her. 
It was true that Burford ’s name had once been linked 
with hers before her marriage as a possible husband, but, 
whether he had joined the ranks of the Irregulars after- 
ward, no one knew. She was a beautiful woman, in a 
cold, hard way, with a gift for sarcasm, and a pretty 
taste in scandal. A greater contrast to Verity could not 
possibly have been imagined. 

“She will laugh if Burford marries Miss Marlowe. 
She has such a sense of humor. But there, nowadays 
one doesn't take much account of marriage. Judge a 
man by his woman friends, not by his spouse. The first 
he chooses, the second is usually chosen for him. And I 
will say this for Burford, he has always shown great 
discrimination. His women have always been smart and 
good-looking, and of a certain type. Some men succumb 
to any absurd thing in petticoats, but Burford isn’t like 
that. He has always shown a considerable amount of 
taste in his selections.” Then she said, with an abrupt 
change of key and a swift look heavenward, “Of course, 
I deplore such things, such irregularities. But while the 
world worships visible matter as it does at present, these 
things must be.” 

The last speck of red had disappeared. The pedes- 
trians were still straggling out of the park. 

“And what does your creed teach?” asked Dawburn, 
who was not acquainted with the teaching of Yoga. 

“Yoga teaches us to know the mystic forces of the 
mind, and thus gives to man the mastery over the secret 
forces of nature. ‘ Atmanam atmana pasya,’ ‘Know 
thyself by thyself.’ Chitta , or Will, is the guiding star 
pf our life. No one sufficiently understands the impor- 

179 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


tance, the necessity of Samadhi — meditation. In Samadhi 
one can escape from this jarring world, one can put 
oneself in touch with the Unknown — the body can, as 
it were, drop away from the mind. Oh! Mr. Dawburn, 
why aren’t you a Yogi?” 

'‘Ought I to be one?” said Dawburn, smiling at her 
enthusiasm. 

‘‘Of course; it is the only satisfactory creed. You 
have read Schopenhauer’s Philosophic des Unbewussten 
Willens! But there was nothing new in that. Buddha 
taught the world the same thing five centuries before 
Christ. Have you ever studied the doctrine of Uncon- 
scious Will?” 

Dawburn shook his head. 

‘‘The East solved this problem two thousand years 
before the Christian era. The doctrine is made up 
of one hundred and ninety-four aphorisms, and there are 
five chief points. These are Restraint, Posture, Regula- 
tion of Breath, Diet, and Abstraction. Only by acquir- 
ing the power of Abstraction can we use our reasoning 
powers to their fullest capacity. Oh! let me make you 
a Yogi,” she pleaded. ‘‘Let me give you a couple of 
books on the subject.” 

Meanwhile, the two whom they had been discussing 
were galloping over the country-side, happily oblivious 
of careless, spiteful tongues. In a gallop across country 
so many things seem unnecessary, false, and ridiculous ; 
so many thoughts that were born in the vitiated air of 
the drawing-room seem unworthy and unnatural. 

Something of this passed through Burford’s mind that 
morning as he felt the motion of the horse beneath him, 
and the clean smell of the earth came up to his nostrils. 
He had been expecting, ever since that night at Renee’s 
flat, to receive a summons for assault. But nothing had 
happened; Renee had not written. As the remembrance 
of the scene in the flat crossed his mind, he frowned. 
It had been ridiculous, to say the least of it. Impa- 
tiently he wondered why men allow such scenes to hap- 
180 


“TALLY-HO!” 


pen. The echo of Verity’s fresh laugh behind him, as 
she replied to some question of George Bradley’s, di- 
verted his thoughts in another and pleasanter direction. 

There were certain things that Burford was constitu- 
tionally incapable of understanding or appreciating. A 
musical genius he had no use for at all. He was never 
even quite certain which was “Home, Sweet Home” and 
which “God Save the King,” without the words. He 
had no ear for music, and he admitted it. Bookish 
women, women who were nothing more, he easily tired 
of, and fine subtleties of thought or character he never 
wholly understood or admired; but his homage always 
went out instantly to a good horsewoman. He had been 
a little nervous that Verity might not sit her horse well, 
or that she might be a timid rider; but as soon as he saw 
her ride over the turf toward him he knew he should 
never have any cause to be ashamed of her in the hunting 
field. She sat her horse as though born to the saddle. 
And as they galloped off in full cry after the hounds, he 
liked her better than ever. A good many men that 
day remarked the lithe, upright little figure, that gave 
so easily to every movement of her horse, but Burford 
was conscious of her all through the run with a sort 
of dawning pride. Curious as it may seem, at that meet 
of the Highclerc Hounds, a real feeling was born in him 
for the little American girl who was so game and full of 
life. Up to this time she had amused him as many 
women — though none quite like her — had done before. 
He had made up his mind to marry her if she would have 
him; and, being a good-looking man, and therefore 
spoiled by the fair sex, he had little real doubt that he 
could win her. There were many things he liked about 
her, and the idea of marriage with her did not bore him, 
as hitherto the idea had always done. But that morning, 
galloping after the doubling fox, jumping ditches and 
clearing hedges, hot on the scent, something grew 
warm in his heart. He had always said that a woman 
looked her best in evening dress, and that if a woman 

181 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


wanted to lead a man on to a declaration, she should don 
the very prettiest decollete frock that her wardrobe con- 
tained. But this morning he would have vowed that a 
woman looked her best (or worst) on horseback, that a per- 
fectly fitting habit on a neat figure is the most seductive 
of garments. He would have liked to propose to Verity 
that morning, if he had only had time and the oppor- 
tunity! 

Once, as a young boy, he had been badly smitten with 
the love fever. The object of his attentions had been a 
girl for whom, for some reason or other, his father had 
not wished him to form an attachment. She was very 
pretty — Burford as a child always preferred a pretty 
nurse to a plain one — with large blue eyes, and an air of 
divine femininity. The paternal interdiction had no 
weight whatever. But one day, for the first time, he 
met her out riding, and his love died a sudden and vio- 
lent death. She rode like a sack of potatoes, and — it was 
a damp day — her hair, which always seemed to ripple so 
naturally over her delicious forehead, was straggling 
untidily in wisps over her ears. She had not been suffi- 
ciently workmanlike or sporting to braid it up neatly 
before starting. He never sought her society again, 
although, like an opening bud, she daily grew prettier. 
His sisters had all been fine horsewomen, and upheld the 
traditions of the family. Lady Finborough had been 
a famous whip in her time, and his two other sisters, one 
dead and the other in India, had both followed the 
hounds regularly and enthusiastically. 

Like most people, he respected what he could under- 
stand, for his mind was not of the caliber that conceives 
a great admiration for the unknown. 

As they jogged along on the homeward way, after 
a very good run, Burford ranged himself alongside of 
Verity. She was as tidy and trim as when they had 
started; but the wind had touched her cheeks with rosi- 
ness, and the excitement had made her big, yellow-brown 
eyes brighter than ever. 


182 


“TALLY-HO!” 


“Tired?” he said, with his slow, friendly smile. 

“No, not a bit. I feel that I could ride it all over 
again. Oh! I have enjoyed it.” 

I’m awfully glad; I hoped you would enjoy it. Do 
you know that I should have been disappointed if you 
hadn’t?” 

“I love your country,” said Verity, enthusiastically. 
“Do you know what I love about it the most? Why, the 
dear little lanes and hedges. They are so sweet and 
tidy. They look as if they had been swept up with a 
broom. We have nothing at all like them in our coun- 
try.” 

“You don’t mind things on a small scale?” 

No, they are so much more friendly, don’t you 
think? The hedges here seem to close you in on either 
side, and say 'you are quite safe with us.’ I cannot 
imagine any one being lawless who was brought up in an 
English village, among these little hedges and lanes. 
One wouldn’t want to uproot anything, not even a 
weed.” 

“And do you think that anything planted here— in 
Lyndhurst — would grow quite happily?” said Burford, 
stealing a glance at her face, to see if she would show 
signs of consciousness. But Verity did not see any per- 
sonal application; she was thinking of Rex Patterson’s 
arguments. 

“Surely. I should think your tenants were quite 
contented.” 

“Why, did you think I rang a curfew bell and treated 
them as slaves?” laughed Burford. “Has any one been 
telling you that I oppress my poor tenants?” 

“But do you take any real interest in them?” in- 
quired Verity, curiously. 

“Oh! I know practically all of them,” returned Bur- 
ford. “Of course, I leave a good deal to my steward. 
He is in direct touch with them, but I am occasionally 
consulted about pulling down an old cottage and building 
a new one, and I am always being asked to subscribe to 

183 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


various objects, from the local cricket club to a cork leg. 
But my tenants are a very decent lot, and most of them 
have been here for many years. ’ ’ 

They were passing a little row of cottages where a 
very old woman with a white mob cap tied over her gray 
hair stood shakily at the door to see them pass. 

“Good morning, granny,” called out Burford, cheer- 
ily, lifting his hat to her. 

Her head threatened to nod itself off with pleasure at 
his greeting. 

“That old woman represents the healthiness of Lynd- 
hurst. She was a hundred and three last month, and she 
was fifty years in our service. She was present at 
my great-grandfather’s wedding, and her husband fought 
at Waterloo. Takes one back a bit, doesn’t it? She’s 
wonderfully clear in the head, too. Quaint old soul. 
She sends me a card on my birthday every year, with a 
nice little Scripture text on it. Old Mary never forgets 
me. She’s awfully proud of her position as the oldest 
villager, because there is another old cottager, a man, 
who is a hundred and one, and he keeps Mary from 
dying. She refuses to give up her superior position. 
They watch one another’s health most anxiously, and they 
both patronize mere youngsters in their eighties. As for 
me — well, I believe she regards me as a sort of infant in 
arms, aged two, minus something. By Jove, I hope I 
don’t live to that venerable age.” 

“Why is it nobody wants to live to be old nowadays?” 
mused Verity. “You always hear people say, ‘Oh! I 
don’t want to live to be very old.’ Of course, I may 
feel differently when I grow older, but I can’t imagine 
not wanting to live. I think the reason why people don’t 
want to live is because they’ve got dyspepsia — either 
physical or mental. I believe a lot of men and women 
have mental dyspepsia; they read all sorts of things 
and learn all sorts of things, and they can’t digest 
them.” 

“You think it’s only bad health that can knock the 
184 


“TALLY-HO!” 


bottom out of life? Did you notice a case of suicide in 
the paper this morning, in which a man left a letter say- 
ing that he had lost all that made life worth living?” 

“You mean — love?” asked Verity, hesitatingly. 

“It was implied in this case. He was dressed in deep 
mourning for some one, presumably a woman. Don’t 
you admit that a disappointment in love, so-called, might 
take all the zest out of life? Or doesn’t love enter into 
your calculations?” He looked at her curiously. 

He was beginning to wonder about her, and when 
a man commences to wonder about a woman, the enchant- 
ment of love is hovering round him. 

“Uncle George says that life without love is like eat- 
ing potatoes without salt; it’s possible, but an insipid 
business. ’ ’ 

“Why do you take refuge in your uncle’s opinions? 
Haven’t you any of your own on the subject?” said 
Burford, teasingly. “What do you dream of in Eliza- 
beth’s chamber? Do you dream of knights in armor, of 
quaint speech and diction, who make love in a remote 
and courtly fashion? It always strikes me as supremely 
uncomfortable to be made love to by a person in armor. 
There was a picture in the Academy, a year or two ago, of 
a fair damsel being carried away by a gallant youth in 
chain armor, and on horseback. It made me feel quite 
sorry for the lady; I am sure she must have been suffer- 
ing agonies, for she was very lightly clad, and he was 
holding her very tightly to his metallic breast. 

Verity laughed. “But think of the romance of being 
carried off like that by an impassioned lover!” 

“Jolly uncomfortable, I should say. Probably the 
lady hadn’t even her toothbrush with her. And as for 
all this forest-lovers’ business, I want to know how the 
man manages to shave and keep his hair cut, and what 
the woman does when the supply of hairpins gives out. 
No, I don’t mind running away with you, Miss Marlowe, 
if you will give me the chance, but do let me pack a 
portmanteau carefully first. I will sit on my steed — 

185 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


you’d like that better than a motor — and desperately 
clutch you and the portmanteau. ,, 

“And if one of us went to the ground, it wouldn’t be 
the portmanteau!” 

“That’s unkind. I don’t believe you know anything 
about the tender passion of love. Don’t you think it’s 
time you took a few lessons?” 

“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” quoted 
Verity, with a twinkle. 

“Well, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t take a 
complete course. It might be possible to arrange it. ’ ’ 

“I might be a dull pupil,” returned Verity, her eyes 
dancing. “There are some things I never could learn. 
For instance, I never could get hold of algebra, and I 
tried ever so hard.” 

They had turned in at the park gates, and were trot- 
ting up the long drive. 

“Ah! but love is much more interesting than algebra, 
although x, the unknown quantity, figures very largely in 
it, too. You can never tell how much the x is worth — 
that’s the charm of it.” 

“Does the problem always work out?” 

Burford shook his head. “It always works out if 
you keep at it long enough. But sometimes you get tired 
and bored, and you leave the sum unsolved. But because 
you did not take kindly to algebra is no reason why you 
should not find the Game of Love more interesting. In 
fact, I think it is in your favor. I rather think — you — 
might have talent in that direction. Oh! love is like 
other games, you may have a talent for it. Some 
even have genius — they are the immortals. ... I once 
heard an author declare bitterly that everybody thought 
he could write, that it required no special aptitude, no 
particular knowledge, that you simply took up a pen and 
dipped it in the ink, when you felt so inclined, and 
straightway masterpieces of literature were evolved! 
Well, a lot of people think they can love if they desire 
to, that, if they want to have a great passion, they can 

186 


“TALLY-HO!” 


have it by holding out their arms. But they can’t. 
There are very few men and women who have a distinct 
capacity for loving. ’ ’ 

“Perhaps it’s better not to have that capacity,” 
returned Verity, quickly. “At least — no — I don’t mean 
that, only — I think it’s one of those things you can learn 
so much more easily than you can unlearn. Some lessons 
you forget almost at once, but this lesson might alter all 
your life. I don’t know — I don’t know that I want to 
take any lessons in it.” 

But she deliberately avoided meeting his eyes, as he 
helped her down from the saddle. His large hand closed 
firmly over hers, as they stood at the foot of the steps. 
The other riders were following up behind them, the 
plomp-plomp of the horses’ feet punctuating their con- 
versation. 

“The lessons might be sweet, very sweet,” he said, 
gently. “You know how to enjoy life! don’t you think 
you might enjoy love? Why be afraid of it?” 

He felt her small hand flutter in his like a bird trying 
to escape, but he held it tightly. “I know you are game 
— I believe I’ll dare you! I’ll dare you to fall in love!” 

“And if I take up the challenge — ?” returned Verity, 
a little unsteadily. 

“You’ll find I can play the game, too. ... Ah! Mrs. 
Marlowe, are you tired? It’s been a ripping run, hasn’t 
it? I don’t know, personally, when I’ve enjoyed a run 
more. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE QUICK AND THE DEAD 

“I should know an English Sunday anywhere/ ’ 
declared Philippa, at breakfast, the next day. 4 'There 
is a certain look in the eye of the English servant, as she 
wakes you on that day, that is unmistakable. Even the 
song of the birds is different — it has a sort of chantiness 
— and the cows low in a deeper note. ’ ’ 

“I regret to say that Sunday has been very much 
desecrated in the last few years/ ’ remarked Lady Fin- 
borough, who was already decked for church. 4 ‘I insist 
on my servants going to church at least once a week. 
... I am sure they work all the better for it. Do you 
keep an eye on the servants, Burford?” 

Good heavens, no! I should never be so indelicate 
as to interfere with other people’s souls. I always feel 
sorry for clergymen; it is their business in life to do in- 
delicate things. ’ ’ 

“I don’t shirk my responsibilities,” replied his sister, 
reprovingly. 

“But we are told to rest on Sundays, Cora,” put in 
her husband, mildly. 

“I shall go and inspect the school children this after- 
noon,” she announced, imperturbably. “But I hope Sin- 
clair won’t preach a very long sermon. Last time he 
made us late for lunch, and I dislike my meals late. 
I was going to mention it to him, but I forgot.” 

"Is he a good preacher?” asked Philippa, carelessly, 
by way of saying something. 

‘He is not brilliant, but he is sound. And so very 
188 


THE QUICK AND THE DEAD 


few preachers are sound nowadays. I hate religious 
fireworks.” 

“You mean he knows his duty in that state of life in 
which we have put him,” commented her brother. “In 
other words, he knows on which side his bread is but- 
tered.” 

“Don’t be so cynical, Burford. Sinclair’s convictions 
are sound, I am sure. Is that the first bell I hear?” 

Verity strolled out on the terrace while she was wait- 
ing for the others to get ready. The sound of the bells 
floated over the still air from the village below them. 
The bells were old and mellow, and Verity listened to 
them with pleasure. Then she happened to see George 
Bradley’s face. He was reading a letter which had come 
by the one Sunday morning post. 

“Why, Georgie Porgie, you look as though some- 
body had just given you the world as a gift.” 

“I’ve had very good news— the best of news.” 

“Veronica?” 

“Yes. She is sailing on the fourteenth. She will be 
here in ten days’ time. She is going to marry me at 
last.” 

Verity clapped her hands. “Really? Oh, George, I 
am glad ! Has she discovered that she can’t live without 
you?” 

“Well, it seems strange, but that’s how it reads.” 

“If you’d only gone away before!” exclaimed Verity. 
“You see you spoilt her. You were really too good and 
patient with her, and you let her use you too much. 
Don’t you see now that you can be too good to a woman?” 

“No,” he replied, stoutly. “She was worthy of the 
very best I had to give. I wasn’t going to worry her 
into marrying me, if she didn’t feel she wanted to. But 
I’m jolly glad she — she does want to.” 

“It means all that to you!” Verity said, in a lower 
tone, turning away. “All that! You once said, I re- 
member, that love means — meant everything.” 

“So it does— real love, not the counterfeit. My love 
189 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


for Veronica has been part of my life, of me. I can’t 
imagine life without the thought of her, the feeling for 
her. ’ ’ 

“But, George, suppose she had never married you; 
suppose she hadn’t felt ” 

“Nothing could take away my love for her, even if 
she didn’t care for me. I gave her my love freely. Why 
should I ask for something in return? Don’t make that 
mistake, dear. It is the finest thing on earth if the per- 
son you care for loves you, but we needn’t do without 
love because he or she doesn’t care for us in the same 
way. It really matters most that we can love, that some 
one means the whole world to us. We all feel a desire 
to be loved, but I think if we thought more of loving, 
of being able to love, it might be better.” 

“But that’s almost sublimely unselfish. How many 
people could do it?” 

“I guess they don’t try,” replied George, simply. 
“Isn’t there too much of the quid pro quo about love- 
making and everything else nowadays? Don’t we all say, 
I will give you a heart in return for a heart? That’s 
ordinary commercial bartering. Love should be above 
that kind of thing. ’ ’ 

“I expect people don’t love well enough, that’s the 
trouble,” said Verity, after a slight pause. 

“Ah! to be able to love deeply, to give loyally, is 
very rare.” 

Burford had said much the same thing the previous 
day, only George Bradley struck a deeper note. 

“I once met a most charming elderly woman, a spin- 
ster, who had scores of friends and acquaintances, ’ ’ con- 
tinued George Bradley. “She was sound to the core, and 
her optimism was something wonderful. I once hinted 
delicately that I was surprised that she had never mar- 
ried. Then she told me that she had been engaged in her 
early youth, but her fiance had been killed in war. ‘I 
knew I could never wed any other man, but that was no 
reason there should be no love in my life. I could give 

190 


THE QUICK AND THE DEAD 


love/ she said. ‘And when I had dried my tears and 
began to look around, I found there were so many people 
that wanted love. Because of my own ache, I knew how 
badly they wanted it. ’ She was one of the youngest look- 
ing women I have ever met, and she was just as young in 
mind, too. She told me it was just by loving that she 
had kept all her freshness and interest in life. And, any- 
way, you often get what you want by just going on lov- 
ing. Why, just so, Veronica is going to marry me, bless 
her. I made my love necessary to her. ,, 

“I don’t believe you’re what fcne would call a prac- 
tical adviser in affairs of the heart,” smiled his niece. 
‘‘I believe Lady Finborough, for instance, would talk 
quite differently.” 

“Maybe. Are you wanting any advice on the affair 
of the heart, young person?” 

“No,” said Verity, hastily, “oh, no!” But her face 
flushed, and she began to play with the tails of her sable 
muff. “Aren’t those church bells sweet with their sing- 
song, ding-dong? Miss Rees says she hates church bells; 
they always make her feel miserable. But I like them, 
they sort of chime in with everything. Are you ready, 
Mrs. Townsend?” 

The good-looking widow had strolled up with a mar- 
tyred expression. 

“Isn’t it a bore, having to go to church? I do wish 
Lady Finborough would save her own soul alive, and leave 
mine to burn dead. I suppose you have never been to a 
little church in the country? Ah! well, one can stand it 
once. It may amuse you. Your church services in New 
York are sort of oratorio affairs, aren’t they? Somebody 
told me you hired famous singers and did the thing well? 
I wouldn’t mind it so much if they made a concert of the 
church service. It would make it sound new.” 

“Couldn’t you beg off, if you don’t like going?” 

Mrs. Townsend shrugged her shoulders in their luxu- 
rious chinchilla wraps. “Last time I stayed with her — 
that was at Finborough Castle — I pleaded a bad headache 

191 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

after breakfast. But she insisted on coming into my 
room and made me take a disgusting powder that really 
did give me a headache. No, you might as well try and 
get out of the way of a steam-roller. ' ' 

Lady Finborough sailed up to them. She held in her 
hand a large purple prayer-book, and her bonnet was very 
severe. 

“Are we all ready? I think we should be starting. 
Very bad form to be late at church/ ' 

“God will give us a bad mark,” murmured Mrs. 
Townsend. 

“What did you say?” demanded Lady Finborough, 
sharply. 

“I said it set a bad example,” replied the widow, 
with an expression of bland piety. 

“Where's Finborough?” asked Burford. 

“He can't be found,” replied his wife, shortly, clutch- 
ing up her skirts. “Perhaps he has gone on ahead.” 

But she added this last with no great air of conviction. 
Finborough was well known for his genius in evading 
unpleasant duties. Burford often declared he must have 
discovered the secret of making himself invisible. 

Burford now turned away, and was guilty of a most 
un-Sabbath-like wink at Mrs. Townsend, who murmured, 
‘Lucky Finborough!’ under her breath. 

Then she turned to Holt Vicary. “Shall the lambs, 
led out for slaughter, go forward to their doom? Come. 
I know the way, for I live to tell the tale.” 

Followed by Holt, she descended the steps, carefully 
displaying a very pretty pair of ankles for his benefit. 
She was a good-looking woman, with a skin of peculiar 
creamy whiteness, and eyes of a dark, languid blue. She 
had the reputation of being “a confounded tease,” and 
of leading men up to a certain point, and then dashing 
their hopes to the ground. But this did not prevent men 
from falling in love with her, and she was usually sur- 
rounded by admirers. 

Philippa watched them depart with unreasonable an- 
192 


THE QUICK AND THE DEAD 


noyance. Apparently Holt Vicary had transferred his 
affections! Undoubtedly, he was carrying on a flirtation 
with Mrs. Townsend. At first she had been surprised, 
then a little apprehensive, and now, as she angrily ac- 
knowledged to herself, rather annoyed. It was true that 
she had refused to marry Holt, but she could not tolerate 
his embarking upon another venture. And she had al- 
most begun to believe in his devotion. Once or twice 
she had seriously thought over her brother’s advice to 
marry him, and now! 

The church at Lyndhurst was one of the oldest in the 
county, and always during the summer attracted a good 
many visitors, who drove in from the neighboring places. 
It stood as a sort of monument of the Rees family for 
many generations, for the church had from time to time 
been enriched and beautified, restored and added to, by 
the various owners of Lyndhurst. There is a mention of 
the church of St. Nicholas, Lyndhurst, in the ancient 
Doomsday Book, and on the site of the present church— 
for only the foundations of the original one remain — the 
service of God had been read in the days of the Mercian 
kings. The massive tower, erected in the year 1240, is 
a landmark for many miles. 

Around it was the usual acre of the dead, with tomb- 
stones new and old; some crumbling to pieces with age, 
the inscriptions obliterated; some leaning to the east and 
some to the west; some dark green with age and covered 
with ivy; and others, with their clear black lettering and 
carefully painted bushes and plants at their feet, show- 
ing that some of the dead still linked hands with the 
living. It was Easter, and there were many floral offer- 
ings — daffodils, wallflowers, Star of Bethlehem, and nar- 
cissi. Verity chanced to notice a tiny grave, almost 
covered with pansies, witness of some mother’s heartache. 
The churchyard was surrounded by trees, where the birds 
chirped all day long, as though in conversation with the 
dead. It was wonderfully peaceful there. The mellow 
old bells were ringing from the tower; the parishioners 
14 193 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


were quietly making their way up the paths, prayer-books 
in hand. A great bush of sweetbrier caught Verity's 
sleeve as she passed, and as they walked up the path the 
strains of the voluntary played on the organ within came 
to her as an accompaniment to the scent. 

Just as they arrived, the vicar came through the little 
gate which led to the adjacent vicarage, already garbed 
in his white surplice and purple and black hood. He had 
seemed a very ordinary man in the hall at Lyndhurst, 
but here, among the tombstones, in his fluttering surplice, 
he somehow seemed a different person. The dignity of 
his office was upon him; even to an aristocratic old sinner 
like Lady Finborough he was empowered to pronounce 
absolution. 

Verity did not fail to notice the respectful attitude of 
the villagers to Burford as he passed. All the men and 
boys touched their foreheads, and many of the older 
women and children curtseyed. It was not done in a 
sullen way, as from tenant to landlord; there was a cer- 
tain friendliness in the salutations, that showed that he 
was a favorite with them. And he was perfectly easy 
and natural in his acknowledgments, with a word for 
one, and a smile and nod for another. There was nothing 
of the stiff, uneasy dignity of the nouveau riche; it was 
evident that he had been used to this respect all his life. 

The churchwarden — a local tradesman— made them a 
profound obeisance as they entered, and, in his black 
robes, preceded them in solemn state up the aisle of the 
church to their pews; but the effect was somewhat spoilt 
by his boots, which creaked horribly. 

The interior of the church that morning was a beauti- 
ful sight, and even Mrs. Townsend murmured an involun- 
tary exclamation of admiration. The pews were all of 
dark old oak of an ancient pattern, and standards fixed at 
equal intervals held thick white candles. These standards 
— there were hundreds — had each been tied up with trails 
of ivy and bunches of daffodils, while the chancel was a 
mass of hothouse flowers, which Verity afterward learned 

194 


THE QUICK AND THE DEAD 


had been sent up, as usual, from Lyndhurst. The sun 
was streaming through the fine, stained-glass perpendicu- 
lar windows above the altar, and the church was flooded 
with masses of color, which flickered over and warmed 
the old stonework. The Rees’s crest of the leopard’s 
head was everywhere apparent, in the bosses of the vault- 
ing, on the font, in the windows, and in the reredos. 
Some rust-eaten pieces of armor which, according to tradi- 
tion, had belonged to members of the family, and three 
dilapidated old standards, which had been carried to vic- 
tory on the battle-field, hung in tatters over the choir 
stalls. 

The choir commenced to file in; and, with a mighty 
shuffle, the congregation rose to its feet, Lady Finborough 
closely scrutinizing the choir boys as they passed her. 
Then the familiar words began to drone through the 
building: “When the wicked man turneth away from 
his wickedness ” 

As the service proceeded, Verity looked around her. 
The walls of the church were covered with brasses and 
effigies of the various owners of Lyndhurst. Within 
touch of her hand was a quaint Elizabethan monument 
in gray and white marble, with recumbent figures of a 
man and woman, and a row of small kneeling figures slop- 
ing away on either side of them. This was to the mem- 
ory of Elizabeth Ann and Burford Geoffrey Rees; they 
had apparently been paragons of virtue, and the founders 
of a large family. Then, close by, was a handsome brass 
with an inscription to the memory of Joan de Rees, a.d. 
1354, and another recording the decease of Burford John 
Rees, Dominus de Lyndhurst. Inset among the tiles in 
the floor, at her feet, was an old stone tablet, with broken, 
obliterated letters, and the rough outline of a knight in 
armor. She made out by patience the letters REES. 
Some of the monuments of the family were comparatively 
new. There was one recording the heroism of a certain 
John Geoffrey Rees, who had led the charge of Dhurwani, 
been captain of his regiment, and who had fallen at Delhi. 

195 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


Apparently there had been several soldiers in the family, 
and two distinguished politicians. It was an imposing 
array, this record of a famous old English family; and 
though Mrs. Townsend winced and grimaced when the 
soloist, in the anthem, failed to reach the right note on 
“I know that my Redeemer liveth,” Verity for once 
was unaware that anything was artistically amiss. Once 
or twice she stole a glance at the present representative of 
the family, but he had assumed his most stolid expres- 
sion, and, with irreproachable demeanor, was following 
the service. Once he caught her eye and gave her a 
quick smile; but his kinship with all these distinguished 
dead made him somehow seem far away from her. His 
association with their departed glories began to cast a 
sort of glamor over him in her mind. He seemed to her 
something more than an ordinary man, something that 
one could admire and look up to. She watched him with 
a sort of fascination as, very big and very much alive, he 
stood at the end of the pew. The romantic dreams of 
her girlhood drew nearer to him, and hovered round him. 
Her imagination was fired and began to burn away the 
guard to her heart. 

The vicar preached a short, but very sound sermon, 
which was after Lady Finborough’s own heart, though he 
was obviously a little nervous in apprehension of that 
lady’s criticism. It was orthodox and commonplace, but 
becomingly simple. His rather ingenuous, earnest face 
seemed in the right environment, as a more speculative, 
keener one would not have done. He belonged to the old 
Church, to the old order of beliefs, to simple living and 
simple dying. 

And as Burford’s feeling for Verity had quickened in 
that ride across the country after the hounds, so did her 
interest warm toward him on that Easter morning in the 
little old church of St. Nicholas, Lyndhurst. 


CHAPTER XIX 


"A BLOW IN THE DARK " 

“The time has come — " said Ira Townsend, perching 
herself on the arm of the chair opposite her host, who 
was turning over the pages of Country Life. 

“ ‘The walrus said, to talk of many things, of shoes — 
and ships — and sealing wax — of cabbages — and kings/ " 
quoted Burford, throwing his mind back hastily to his 
childhood. 

“You're an absurd creature/' replied Mrs. Townsend, 
laughing, “but I rather like you. If you hadn't had a 
sense of humor — Heavens! what a man it would have been. 
As it is, I don't dislike it." 

“Ye gods!" cried the man so apostrophized, making 
a comic gesture of alarm, “are you on the verge of pro- 
posing to me? Because, if so, let me save you. Do let 
me be useful for once in my life. Don't stand shivering 
on the brink — come away from temptation before it proves 
too strong for you." 

Mrs. Townsend looked at him thoughtfully out of the 
indolent blue eyes that had captured the heart of his old 
friend, Lai Townsend. He noticed that her lips looked 
extraordinarily pink and soft in the creamy whiteness of 
her face. Speculation flitted through her brain, and 
glimmered in the depths of her eyes. 

“Well, I wouldn't mind marrying you, Burford, if — 
if I were a different sort of woman." 

Burford laughed as he flung the paper away. “You're 
not thinking of changing your skin, I suppose?" 

“No, merely my face powder." 

“That which you use seems quite satisfactory. There's 
197 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


a little too much in the cleft of your chin, otherwise I 
approve of it.” 

‘‘Well, I’ve never left any of it on your coat-sleeve, 
have I?” said Ira, good-humoredly, dabbing at the super- 
fluous powder with her handkerchief. 

“You have never done me that honor; if you had I 
should have preserved the coat under a glass case as a 
sacred relic, like they do bits of saints.” 

“Some women are so careless,” she continued, lazily; 
“a patch of powder led to the Manningham divorce, you 
know. Lord Manningham is the most unsuspicious crea- 
ture alive, but when a man comes out of your wife’s 
boudoir with a big patch of white on his ‘manly buzzum,’ 
it’s time either to open your eyes a bit wider or shut 
them entirely. ... I wonder if Eve had a home-made 
powder puff? I am sure it plays quite a large part in 
affaires du coeur. Fancy imploring a lady with a shiny 
nose to fly with you ! . . . Yes, I quite like you, Burford, 
as I remarked before, but I’ve never wanted to flirt with 
you one atom.” 

“Then you must really and truly love me,” mocked 
Burford, “and your true woman’s nature cannot lower 
itself to trifle with me. Ah! this is why the fascinating 
Mrs. Townsend has refused so many eligible offers. Am 
I at liberty to publish the information?” 

Mrs. Townsend still continued her own cogitations. 
“I should hate to have you make love to me,” she said, 
taking a cigarette from the little gold case that hung on 
her chain. “I hate men who make love as they would — 
smoke a cigar, just to pass the time. It’s too degrading 
to be put on a level with a little roll of brown weed.” 

“I enjoy a good cigar, and a fine Havana is 
worth ’ ’ 

“Half an hour's smoke! Burford, you’re a trying sort 
of man, and men like you are the despair of our sex. If 
a woman gives you all she has to give, you despise her 
and the gift— oh ! yes, you do, though you may not admit 
it, even to yourself — and if she doesn’t hold out that kind 

198 


"A BLOW IN THE DARK” 


of promise you never notice her at all! There are one 
or two exceptions, of course. You are chummy with me 
because I was Lai’s wife, and you like Amy Tweedale 
because she is a fine bridge player, and so on. Some- 
where at the back of your mind you keep some impossible 
old-fashioned ideas about women, and women hate being 
made love to by that kind of man — when he doesn’t want 
to marry them. Lai used to declare that you had some 
early Victorian antiques somewhere in the garrets of 
your mind, stowed away out of sight.” 

“What nonsense you talk! I haven’t got any mind 
at all, let alone garrets. I’m a twentieth century man, 
if there ever was one.” 

“You’re like a modern house that has been built on 
old foundations. On the top are all the latest improve- 
ments and conveniences. Underneath — well, you’re most 
uncomfortable. . . . You know men like you, Burford, 
are rather brutal. They make women what they are, be- 
cause they pretend to have no standards, and then — they 
suddenly unfurl one over their corpses.” 

“My dear Ira,” said Burford, quickly, “you have 
never heard me say ” 

“Oh! I know, you never talk lightly of women. I’ve 
often been surprised at the courteous way you speak of 
women who are — well, built with the latest improvements 
and conveniences. But underneath, in that old foundation 
of yours, you look on them as creatures of amusement 
only — bits of fluff, that you blow away when you are 
through with them. I imagine, ’ ’ she screwed up her eyes 
and looked up at the vaulted ceiling, “I imagine you 
might be most uncomfortable to live with if ” 

“If what?” He leant back lazily. 

“If the little bit of fluff you married left some pow- 
der on another man’s coat.” 

“By no means. I shouldn’t live with it.” 

“Exactly — most uncomfortable. The old founda- 
tions! . . . Suppose you had had some money, and 
Muriel Margetson had married you?” 

199 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Has that anything to do with what we were discuss- 
ing?” replied Burford, quite courteously, but presenting 
a face like a blank wall to her. 

“That’s nice of you. Sacred to the memory of an old 
love. But that brings me to what I started to say when 
you excursioned into wonderland. The time has come for 
you to give Lyndhurst a mistress. You really must marry, 
if only out of consideration for your friends. I love com- 
ing down here, and John’s wife will never invite me, I 
know. ’ ’ John was Burford ’s brother and heir-prospective 
to Lyndhurst. 

“It’s very kind of you, but I have no intention of 
shuffling off this mortal coil at present. It fits me quite 
comfortably, and I might get a misfit next time. I sus- 
pect that the heavenly tailors haven’t got the proper West 
End finish.” 

“You never know,” replied Ira, coolly, “what with 
aeroplanes and appendicitis! Both are rampant just now. 
Burford, think of a food faddist mistress here! The 
latest idea of John’s wife is carrots and lettuce leaves, 
washed down by a little barley water. Yes, isn’t it 
awful ! Think of her sitting in that beautiful old dining- 
room, solemnly munching lettuce leaves like a rabbit. 
Let her have a hutch anywhere else, but not here. And 
her eldest child squints! Oh, Burford, you couldn’t let 
a small squinting bunny reign here! Noblesse oblige. It 
would be too monstrous. It would disturb the peace of 
your ancestors.” 

“I confess I don’t like the picture.” 

“The squinting bunny said to me the other day — I 
met him in the park — with one eye on me, and the other 
on his father, ‘Uncle Burford is too lazy to marry. I 
shall have Lyndhurst one day.’ ” 

Burford gave a chuckle at Mrs. Townsend’s very ex- 
pressive pantomime, which did not improve her appear- 
ance. 

“Burford,” she said, coaxingly, “are you feeling 
quite so lazy as usual? I seem to see signs of a little 

200 


“A BLOW IN THE DARK” 


energy. Couldn’t you make a supreme effort and keep 
awake till you’d proposed to some nice girl?” 

Burford’s eyes answered her meaning glance with the 
good understanding that had always been between them. 
”1 believe I am feeling a little stronger lately; I seem to 
be able to sit up and take an interest in my surround- 
ings. The air here is very refreshing. ’ ’ 

“Can I be of any assistance?” she queried, delicately. 

“In return for free board and lodging here at any 
time ” 

“You are prepared to perjure yourself by swearing 
that the leopard has no spots? Thanks awfully. I’ll bear 
your offer in mind. Only don’t you think a recommenda- 
tion from one woman to another might be misunder- 
stood?” 

They both laughed, and looked up to find Lady Fin- 
borough bearing down upon them like a frigate in full 
sail. “Ah, Cora, you always remind me of the auntie 
person of Stevenson, whose skirts came ‘trundling down 
the stairs!’ ” 

“Nonsense, nobody rustles nowadays.” 

“Yes, they do. Some people always rustle mentally, 
if not sartorially.” 

“I’ve just been looking at the rooms in the west 
wing. They’re in a dreadful condition. You must have 
something done to them.” 

“I will, when I can raise some money. At present 
they must wait. You wouldn’t like to lend me a bit to 
go on with, Cora?” 

“Haven’t got it. Finborough wastes it all on aero- 
planes now.” She looked at him sharply, and settled 
her pince-nez more firmly on her handsome nose. “If 
you were to get engaged, Burford, no doubt you could 
arrange an accommodation.” 

“Ah! what a pity. Ira’s just refused me.” 

“I’ve been giving him good advice, Lady Finbor- 
ough.” 

“Good advice,” said Burford, half-smiling, “is like 
201 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


a patent medicine. It always suits some one else’s com- 
plaint, but never your own.” 

“It is your duty to marry/ ’ replied his sister, taking 
no notice of his remark. 

“Must I now, at thirty-eight, commence to do my 
duty? The unaccustomed exertion might kill me.” 

“The Bible speaks very clearly on the subject. You 
should have heard the Bishop’s address the other day at 
the Molyneux wedding. It was most thoughtful. It 
would have done you good. She brought him twenty 
thousand a year. . . . What are you going to do now, 
Mrs. Townsend?” as the widow began to stroll away. 

“Mr. Holt and I are going down to the village to 
hang over the wishing well, and wish each other at 
Jericho. I think it is our duty to acquaint our trans-At- 
lantic cousins with our country sights, don’t you?” She 
assumed an air of childlike innocence as she looked into 
Lady Finborough’s face. “Do unto others as you would 
they should do unto you.” 

“Nothing would induce me to go to New York,” 
replied that lady, decisively. “There’s quite enough inde- 
pendence in England nowadays, thank you. I hate other 
people’s having liberty and flourishng it in your face 
with an impolite fist. And what are you going to do, 
Burford? Are you going to show another trans- Atlantic 
cousin the sights?” 

“No, I’m going to play the conscientious but over- 
bearing landlord. I am going down to oppress a tenant 
and grind the life out of him. I’ve promised to go and 
talk to Laycock about some fields he wants to rent.” 

“Mind you get a good price. I wish you were more 
businesslike,” said his sister. “You’re exactly the 
same as father. You let them live on the fat of the 
land ” 

“My dear Cora, I infinitely prefer lean to fat. They 
can have it. It accords better with my tendency to 
adipose tissue.” 

“Well, if you’re going down you might call in on old 
202 


“A BLOW IN THE DARK’* 


Mary and give her my kind remembrances. And I want 
to send her a religious book. Just ring the bell and I’ 11 
send for it. ... Oh! Philipps, just send my maid to 
me for a moment. . . . What advice did Mrs. Townsend 
give you?” 

“Eh? Oh! well, for one thing she advised me not to 
have any rabbits on the estate, and especially rabbits that 
squinted and ” 

“I dare say she's been giving you much the same ad- 
vice as I have.” She looked round cautiously. “You 
seem to be getting on very well with Verity. I’ve found 
out what she is worth, and it's even more than I 
thought. You couldn’t do better.” 

Burford’s rather heavy brows contracted in a frown of 
distaste, and he shut his cigarette-case with more vigor 
than was strictly necessary. 

“You like her, don’t you?” said his sister, anxiously. 
“I am sure she is quite sweet. A little too girlish, per- 
haps, for such a big position, but time will rectify that. 
Responsibilities always ” 

He interrupted her sharply, and his voice had an un- 
wonted note of irritation. 

“Hang it, Cora, don’t discuss it as though it were un 
fait accompli, as though I had merely to walk in and 
buy. How do you know the girl even likes me, let alone 
wants to marry me? Goodness knows why any one should 
want me for a husband. She could marry heaps more 
interesting chaps than myself. Sometimes it beats me 
how you women can go on trying to pitchfork girls into 
matrimony with men like myself. Some of us do feel a 
sort of respect for the bloom of girlhood, however hard- 
ened old sinners we may be, but directly you women see 
it you try as hard as you can to get it rubbed off.” 

Lady Finborough drew herself up to her full height, 
but Burford was looking moodily into the fire, so the 
pose failed of its effect. He commenced knocking the 
blazing logs of wood on the hearth, in a restless manner, 
with his heavy brown boots. 

203 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“How dare you make such insinuations, Burford. 
Thank God, I am no matchmaker. These things are 
arranged by an inscrutable Providence.’’ 

“Very inscrutable/' said Burford, with a short laugh. 

“And if I do anything at all, it is only what I con- 
ceive to be my duty in assisting that Providence. Well, 
I must say, you are most ungrateful." 

Burford knew that in her queer, dry way she was 
genuinely attached to him, and had often tried to do him 
a good turn. He relented and put his hand on her shoul- 
der, and his brows relaxed. She was tall, like the rest 
of the family, and her shoulder was but a few inches 
beneath his own broad ones. Dressed for Court, en 
grande tenue, plumes nodding in her hair, Lady Finbor- 
ough could be a most imposing personage. 

“Pm not ungrateful, Cora. But — well, I wish you’d 
never suggested that I should marry this girl. Can’t 
you see that she isn’t like the ordinary society girl, with 
an eye for a good parti first, and the man as— as part of 
the marriage settlement, a sort of blot on it? It’s 
absurd, I know, but it jars on me when you discuss this 
thing so coolly.’’ 

Lady Finborough opened her eyes with such genuine 
astonishment that her glasses fell off her nose. But she 
readjusted them hastily, for she was too astute to show 
her surprise. She had always known that there were 
“soft spots’’ in Burford which, like patches of bog land in 
the open country, you were liable to stumble into un- 
awares. She had made it her business to reclaim them 
and keep them from being attacked. But she had 
never expected that he would show any sentiment about 
his marriage. She was profoundly astonished, but she 
instantly realized that his attitude was not altogether 
inimical to her scheme for him. To speak as he had 
done argued that one of the soft spots had been touched 
by this little American, and if he had some queer, inex- 
plicable motive for wishing that it might be regarded as 
a pure love attachment, she was wise enough to see that 
204 


‘‘A BLOW IN THE DARK” 


it might argue well for her plans. Her own son had 
proposed to Evangeline with filial docility, on a plain 
business statement of her position and his own depleted 
coffers. Burford was evidently another proposition. 

So she adjusted herself to the situation as she replied, 

4 ‘If I have urged anything upon you, it is only for your 
good. I want to see Lyndhurst secured to your children. 
I saw you were attracted to her, and that was why I 
have been — er — encouraging you. I love to see a love 
match. One cannot help but gently clap one's hands 
with approval.” She turned to the black-robed maid 
who stood at a respectful distance from her. ‘‘Oh! 
Marie, will you bring down a little black book called 
‘The Young Christian’? I am sure old Mary will find 
great comfort in it.” 

Burford presently put the little book in his pocket, 
and started on his way down to the village. It was just 
after tea, and most of his guests were roaming about the 
grounds, or playing billiards. Burford Rees never trou- 
bled to entertain his guests, that was why his week-end 
parties were so popular. He was careful to invite con- 
genial spirits, and then he left them to amuse themselves. 

He went to Laycock’s farm first, and having quickly 
arrived at an amicable settlement of a debated point that 
his agent had not been able to arrange, he went on to the 
cottage where old Mary lived. As he passed through the 
village, his way led him past the village inn, ‘‘The Jolly 
Huntsman.” He noticed that it was doing a pretty 
brisk business, for it was the Monday Bank Holiday. 
He threw a casual glance at the doorway, and there, 
standing just within, was a man whose face seemed 
vaguely familiar to him. He noticed that it was red, 
and that the eyes were bloodshot, as though the owner 
had been drinking; and he seemed to remember that 
he had seen it look so on some previous occasion. He 
walked on a few yards, trying to recall where he had 
seen it. Then he stopped short in the roadway. He knew 
who it was. It was Renee’s husband, the man Pollock. 

205 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


Burford turned, and contemplated the gently swing- 
ing sign-board. He wondered what Pollock could be 
doing at Lyndhurst. What business could the man have 
there? For an instant, he was minded to retrace his 
steps, then he realized that he could do nothing. He 
could not order the man away. And yet he could not 
help connecting his visit with himself. Lyndhurst was 
out of the way of trippers; it was a long distance even 
from Southbourne. Was it an accident that Pollock was 
there? 

He reflected angrily that it would be very unpleasant 
if the man came up to the Hall and made a scene before 
his guests, but he was powerless to prevent it, other than 
giving a warning to the lodge-keeper not to admit him. 
He itched to have the man thrown out of the village. 
The sight of him brought back the tingling annoyance 
and disgust with himself. 

Then, with a resigned shrug of his shoulders, he 
walked on to Mary’s cottage, higher up the road. The 
cottage had been a gift to her, and his gardeners still 
kept her and her grandson’s family supplied with vege- 
tables, dairy produce, and many other things. Besides 
this, Mary enjoyed a very handsome pension, consid- 
erably more than the State would have allowed her, so 
that her old age was comparatively luxurious. Mary was 
seated at the cottage window, with its pots of geranium 
and musk, and he saw the top of her white, starched 
muslin cap as he strode up the little flagged path, edged 
with London pride and creeping Jenny. The door was 
opened before he arrived, and Mary stood shaking and 
curtseying in the doorway. Her wrinkled face was 
beaming with pleasure, her black alpaca apron shone like 
silk. 

Burford held out his hand to clasp her withered one. 
“How do you do, Granny? Don’t stand up. Here, let 
me fix the cushion behind you.” 

“Just as though I were a great lady,” said Mary, 
proudly, afterward. 


206 


“A BLOW IN THE DARK’ ’ 


“Well, how are you? Still hale and hearty, eh?” 

“Eh, Master Burford, sir, I’ve but little to complain 
of. Rheumatiz in my legs a bit, but that’s nat’ral to my 
great age. As for Thomas Robb — ” this was her rival for 
distinction in the village — “he be fair doubled up with 
it. I do send him some lotion, but I doubt he’s too old 
to get any better.” She gave a little cracked laugh, 
that had about it, a sort of faded sweetness which came 
from her kind old heart. “The doctor, he don’t make 
much out of me. Why, he makes more out of my grand- 
darter than he do out of me.” 

“You’re a wonderful woman, Granny. I believe 
you’re like that old gentleman who 

“Lived to the age of a hundred-and-ten. 

And died of a fall from a cherry tree then.” 

He looked round amusedly at the prim, neat little 
room, with its shiny American-cloth-covered furniture, 
its raftered, whitewashed ceiling, its plush table-cover, 
with books at regular intervals placed upon it, its array 
of quaint china ornaments — spotted dogs, highly colored 
cows and smirking shepherds. 

Mary nodded her old head complacently. 

“Well, I’ve been spared to a good old age, sir, and 
I’ve still got all my faculties, thank God. Sometimes 
the children think granny can’t see and granny can’t 
hear, but there isn’t much that I don’t see and hear. 
Now, poor old Tom — it’s painful to talk to him, he’s 
that deaf. ’ ’ 

“Well, tell me if there is anything I can do for you, 
at any time. Oh! my sister sent you this book.” 

“Thank her ladyship most kindly for me, sir. And I 
hear there’s to be a grand wedding for her son shortly. 
Eh! but I can’t properly think of her ladyship’s son 
marrying. Seems but the other day she was a young 
girl. Do you mind the day when she rode her horse up 
the steps right into the hall, because some one dared 
her? And her son going to get married — well, well!” 

207 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


‘ ‘That’s a few years ago, Granny.’ ’ 

“Yes, sir, so it be. . . . Master Burford, sir, there’s 
one thing I should like to see before I’m called away. It 
would make me die happy, that it would. I’ve had it on 
my mind this many a year. ’ ’ She was very earnest and 
shaky. 

“Well, what is it?” 

“I’d dearly like to see a mistress at Lyndhurst, sir, 
if you’ll pardon my saying so. It’d be the gladdest 
sound I ever did hear when the bells ring out for your 
wedding-day.” She fixed her faded eye anxiously upon 
him. 

Burford gave an embarrassed cough. “Granny, it 
seems to me there’s a conspiracy to make me marry. I 
don’t believe I’ve got the ghost of a chance to save my 
bachelor’s skin alive.” 

“And it’s any girl that would be proud to marry 
you,” continued Granny. “The lady you honored with 
your choice would be a happy woman the day.” 

“Well, we must see what we can do,” smiled Bur- 
ford. 

“It’s a shame your nephew should be married first,” 
continued the old woman, resentfully, “and your brother 
married this long while. What is a fine-looking man 
like yourself doing without a wife? They do tell me 
that people aren’t anxious to marry these days. My 
great grandson down Portsmouth way, he tells me he 
won’t think of getting married this while. ‘Maybe, 
when I’m forty, I’ll have something to offer a girl,’ 
he says. ‘John Robert,’ says I, ‘you’ll have nothing 
to offer a girl by then. You’ll be a bad-tempered, selfish 
man, and she’ll marry your sticks, not you.’ ” Granny 
wagged her head emphatically. “ ‘Find a nice girl,’ 
I told him, ‘and marry her, and the children ’ll knock all 
the selfishness out of you. It’s ill waiting too long. 
It’s like your victuals, you don’t want ’em when you’ve 
fasted too long.’ Master Burford, don’t ye wait too 
long. ’ ’ 


208 


“A BLOW IN THE DARK” 


Burford laughed as he rose from his chair. “Well, if 
I get married, will you come and dance at my wedding?” 

“Eh! that I will, me and old Tom, we'll dance a 
polky together. . . . That was a pretty young lady with 
you when you went riding by the other day after the 
meet. Maybe ?” 

“Maybe,” smiled Burford. “You’re as hardened an 
old matchmaker as my sister. . . . Well, that’s a bar- 
gain. You’ll dance at my wedding. Oh! you women! 
It’s a wonder to me how any man, young or old, escapes 
the snares of matrimony. ’ ’ 

“Eh, sir,” said Mary, coaxingly, “but we wimmen 
know what’s good for ye. I always knew what was best 
for my old man, better nor he did himself. If you’ll 
pardon my saying so, men is like ducks. They’ll go 
in every direction except the pond at first; but once 
you’ve driven them there, they take to it so kindly 
you’d never know they’d behaved so silly.” 

Burford gave a chuckle at Granny’s homely illustra- 
tion. Somehow he did not mind its matchmaking. He 
looked huge in the little, low room, as he stood up. His 
head nearly touched the ceiling, and he had to stoop care- 
fully as he went out of the door. 

“Well, good-by. I’m glad to find you so well. You 
put us all to shame. I’d like to show you to the food 
cranks. You don’t go in for fasting or carrots, do 
you?” 

“That I don’t,” said Mary, with great scorn, “and 
carrots never did agree with me. I like my little piece 
of beef or a nice chop every day reg’lar, and I can eat 
a pork chop still, though my great granddarter, Liz- 
zie, is mortal afraid of one. Tom, he ain’t touched pork 
for twenty years and more. Thank you very kindly, sir, 
for coming. And please give my humble respects to her 
ladyship. And Master Burford, sir ” 

“Yes?” 

“You’ll like the pond fine when you get there.” 

As he strode back to the house, his thoughts once 
15 209 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


again reverted to the man he had seen at the inn. He 
wondered what the devil he was up to, for he felt con- 
vinced it was some mischief. What was he plan- 
ning? He gave his orders at the lodge gates as he 
passed, but he knew as he did so that this was no real 
protection, for the estate was open on several sides, and 
there were more ways of approaching the house than by 
the carriage-drive. 

Half way back to the house, he overtook Verity, as 
she was walking back from a visit to the village shop in 
search of postcards. 

“Going to send them to your American friends?” 

“Yes. Do you mind pictures of your home going 
broadcast?” 

“Not a bit. Do you want to go in now? I don’t be- 
lieve you take very long to dress for dinner. ” 

“That sounds as though I usually came down in a 
tousled, ‘hurry up’ condition. I think I’d better make a 
long toilet this evening.’ ’ 

“Don’t, it’s such a nice evening. And it doesn’t 
mean that at all. You always look what very few women 
do— so awfully fresh that one knows you haven’t dabbed 
and patted yourself into order. Come and see the sunset 
over the river.’’ 

They turned their steps toward the Yew Avenue. It 
was just growing dusk; the sun was dying away for the 
day. When they reached the avenue, the green gloom 
was almost eerie, but a magnificent blaze of ruddy gold 
seemed like a flaming door at the end of it. 

“The Golden Gate,’’ said Verity, dreamily. “The 
Golden Gate to Dreamland. I wonder if it was an even- 
ing like this when the poor Nun drowned herself, and 
she thought it was the Gate of Paradise, and flung 
herself against it.” 

“Well, personally, I think she was a great josser,” 
returned Burford. “She might have given the poor man 
a chance to reform.” 

“But perhaps the news killed her love. And she 
210 


“A BLOW IN THE DARK” 

couldn’t pretend to love him, could she? You couldn’t 
live with a man you had ceased to care for. One must 
be honest in things like that.” 

“You think she was justified in taking back her 
love?” 

“I don’t think she did deliberately take it back. The 
link between them snapped of its own accord. That was 
all. I dare say she even wanted to forgive him, to 
get back her love for him again, but she couldn’t.” 

“It was only the first shock. She would have recov- 
ered, if he hadn’t been in such a devil of a hurry to 
drown himself. There is such a thing as being stunned 
into temporary insensibility, don’t you think?” 

“I wonder,” mused Verity. “Do you think love 
could recover from such a shock as that? Think, it was 
her wedding-day. She was dreaming about him, full of 
anticipation of their life together, hoping so much, lov- 
ing so much, entering into her magic Castle of Dreams — 
Oh, poor little Nun!” 

“You think she felt all that?” 

“Oh! yes, if a woman marries the man she loves, she 
must feel like that.” 

Burford thought of the many weddings at which he 
had been present — fashionable, much-paragraphed wed- 
dings; of the hard-eyed brides and blase men; of the 
women who had sold themselves, and the men who had 
bought them; of the girls who had said good-by to love 
on their wedding-day, who had chosen wisely but not 
well; of the men to whom marriage was a trivial inci- 
dent, not worthy to rank with a race meeting. 

They paced along, side by side in the gloom. “Isn’t 
it quiet here?” she said. “It seems like a deep, dark 
cavern, away from the world.” 

“It’s ripping in the hot weather,” he replied, pro- 
saically. “You’d like it then. I want you to see Lynd- 
hurst when the may and the lilac are out and the fields 
are yellow and white with buttercups and daisies. 
There is a great hedge of pink may that is one of the 

211 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


sights of the county; and, later on, the roses in the Nun’s 
Garden are really worth seeing. One of the gardeners 
makes a specialty of Crimson Ramblers. You’d love the 
splashes of red against the old ruins.” 

”1 love it all now,” said Verity, impetuously. “It 
is my first real peep of the English country-side, and I 
shall never forget it. When I go back to New York, I 
shall ” 

“Why should you go back to New York?” 

Suddenly, without any warning, without even a rust- 
ling of the trees, something dark and sinister interposed 
between them and the Golden Gate, something that 
blotted out the patch of vivid sky. Verity felt a hot 
breath on her cheek, like the breath of a wild beast. 
She instinctively recoiled a little, only to see an immense 
something descend, not on Burford’s head, luckily, but 
on his shoulder. The attack was so sudden, so violent, 
that her companion was felled to the ground like a log. 
There was a guttural sound that seemed like a curse from 
the dark, vague figure, and once again the huge weapon 
was raised in the air, blotting out the sky. It would 
undoubtedly have been the end of Burford Rees, and the 
succession would have been secured to the squinting 
nephew, for the prostrate man was at his mercy; but 
Verity sprang forward and grasped the arm of the assail- 
ant with all her young strength. She hung on to it des- 
perately, realizing Burford’s peril, and threw all her 
weight to drag the weapon aside. The log fell, bruising 
her shoulder, but escaping the man in the pathway. 

The assailant turned on her, and for a moment 
Verity thought he was going to dash his fists in her face, 
for she could see now that it was a small, red-faced 
man. But Burford had recovered himself, and was on 
his feet. After an instant’s hesitation, the man made a 
dash between the yew trees; there was a crackling sound, 
and the green darkness instantly swallowed him up. 

Burford made to follow him, but stopped with an 
exclamation of pain. His shoulder had been badly hurt. 

212 


“A BLOW IN THE DARK” 


The weapon, a trunk of a tree, which it seemed impossible 
that the man could have handled and poised aloft, lay in 
the pathway, and he collapsed upon it. 

‘‘You are hurt!” said Verity, anxiously, forgetful of 
her own stinging shoulder. 

“The devil. ... I believe he's dislocated it!” 

As he sat huddled on the log, he knew what the 
errand of the red -faced man had been. It was revenge. 
If it had not been for the girl’s plucky action he would 
probably have been killed, or left maimed for life. The 
weapon was no toy. 

Then he rose to his feet, setting his teeth in his under 
lip to bear the pain. “Verity,” he said, and he used her 
name for the first time, though neither noticed it at the 
moment, “do you know you saved my life?” 

He put his hand gently on her shoulder. She winced 
under it. Then his fury broke forth. “He’s hurt you, 
too . . . the damned skunk ... the swine. ... Oh! 
my dear, what can I say to you?” 

“It’s only a bruise,” said Verity, smiling. “I’ll rub 
something on it when I get back to the house, and it will 
soon be all right. But you— you are in great pain. Let 
us get back to the house at once. Who could it have 
been? Why should he assault you?” 

“I can’t think,” said Burford, lying. “I couldn’t 
see him, could you?” 

“It was a small man, with a red face,” returned 
Verity. “But if you can manage to get back to the 
house, let us go. I am afraid of this avenue. Or I’ll 
run and fetch some one to help you.” 

“No, no! I can manage. I’ll walk slowly. Oh! I 
wish he had not touched you. You are always getting hurt 
because of me. It was the dog that bit you last time.” 
In his own mind he added, “And again through Renee.” 

“Yes, I had forgotten that.” She gave a little in- 
voluntary shiver as they emerged from the avenue. “I 
feel almost afraid of the avenue now. I feel that the 
Nun has made it unlucky.” 


213 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“It was lucky for me that you were with me. Any 
other woman would have screamed and fainted or run 
away. You are the pluckiest woman I have ever met. 
. . . Oh! good Heavens! my shoulder !” 

The occurrence created an enormous sensation when 
they arrived at the Hall. Every one talked at once and 
made impossible suggestions. Every one thought it 
incredulous that such a thing should happen in the 
grounds of Lyndhurst itself, and Burford pretended to be 
as astonished as any of them. He knew the man must 
have got away clear, and in one way this suited him bet- 
ter than that he should have been handed over to justice. 
But when he reached his room, his valet was appalled at 
the deep and long imprecations that broke from his 
master’s lips. He could cheerfully have killed Renee as 
well as the man Pollock. And, as he was having his 
shoulder dressed, his anger against her mingled with 
his growing love for another woman — the game little 
American, as he called her — and inflamed him to a point 
almost of madness. 

That night Verity wore a high-necked gown, and Bur- 
ford knew the reason why. 


CHAPTER XX 


NOT A MAORI CHIEF 

The next day several things happened that helped to 
determine Verity’s matrimonial fate. For a young girl 
is always ready to fall in love, while the older woman 
draws back fearfully. The latter knows the danger 
of the pretty toy. She fears love and its inseparable 
companion, passion, whereas a young girl like Verity 
knows nothing of passion, and sees only an ideal that she 
has created in her own heart. But that ideal, though 
false in its conception, is her protection and safeguard, 
and though men mock at it and seek to break it, it occa- 
sionally puts them to shame. Because of it Verity could 
not love lightly; the trivial forms of flirtation could 
never have appealed to her. 

She was wandering round the picture gallery, that 
morning, feasting her eyes on the incomparable old mas- 
ters, and becoming acquainted with Burford’s forebears. 
She loved to slip away for half an hour up there. She 
was a true lover of pictures, and she liked to study a few 
at a time. She objected to paintings in unending rows 
like wallpaper, accompanied by half-bored remarks and 
interjections. Viscount Overton and she had spent a 
very pleasant hour here one morning, and she had found 
his company an acquisition. Charles was a connoisseur, 
and a man of very cultured taste to boot, and he had 
given her, as it were, the key to the gallery. 

There was a delightful Giorgione that she especially 
loved. It was the portrait of a young man with a won- 
derfully fine face and big, expressive gray eyes, and 

215 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


he stood out from the canvas like a living thing. It was 
ranged side by side with a Greuze, which it made into a 
piece of pretty artificiality. 

She curled herself up on one of the roomy window- 
seats under the tall windows, and gave herself up to the 
contemplation of this very good-looking young man. 

“I’m glad you were put into a picture,” she mur- 
mured to herself, “because I can still admire you, and 
you must have been dead many years.” 

She had tucked her feet under her, tailor fashion, a 
childish trick she always relapsed into when alone. She 
could not be seen except by some one passing along the 
gallery. She was dreaming, and did not hear the door 
of the gallery open. The wind was high that morning, 
and was howling noisily round the house. 

Then she was suddenly startled by the sound of a kiss 
near at hand, and a voice that she quickly identified as 
that of Captain Falkner. “There never is any one here. 
I think picture galleries are a kind dispensation of 
Providence, don’t you?” 

The rather high-pitched voice of Vicary’s cousin, Bea- 
trice Miller, made answer: 

“Well, I guess there isn’t any overcrowding here.” 

Verity did not know what to do. If she had heard 
them come in, she would have hailed them, for that they 
did not wish for company would not have occurred to 
her. She was astonished, too, for she had not noticed 
that he and Beatrice had a penchant for one another. 
While she was hesitating, he continued: 

“Well, I shall see something of you when you return 
to town, sha’n’t I?” 

“Just as much as you like,” returned Beatrice, 
rather ardently. 

“Do you really mean that, Bee?” Then followed 
whispered words that Verity did not hear, and a long 
silence that was evidently filled by an embrace. 

Verity decided that she must certainly apprise them 
of her presence. They were sauntering in her direction, 

216 


NOT A MAORI CHIEF 


Then she had a sudden inspiration for extricating all 
three of them. She quietly opened one of the long case- 
ment windows, and leant well out, apparently absorbed 
in the view of the Nun’s Garden below. 

Presently she heard an exclamation behind her, and 
a sound suspiciously like “damn!” She withdrew her 
head, her hair wildly waving in the wind. Luckily, 
it required her attention to readjust it while she was 
speaking to them, but sharp-eyed Beatrice Miller was 
not altogether deceived. She fancied she detected some 
unusual embarrassment on the girl’s face. 

“You here, Verity? We didn’t see you.” 

“Didn’t you? Oh! what an awful wind! I think I’d 
better shut the window now.” 

“Allow me,” said Captain Falkner. Then carelessly, 
“Did you hear us come in?” He was a rather fast-look- 
ing man, with a sensual mouth and a bulldog chin, but 
good-looking for his type. 

“No, I didn’t,” replied Verity, truthfully. “The 
wind is making such a noise.” 

“What on earth are you doing up here all by your- 
self?” said Captain Falkner, darting a glance of reassur- 
ance at Beatrice. 

“Do you think pictures can only be admired by peo- 
ple in pairs?” she said, uncomfortably conscious of his 
idea of the uses of a picture gallery. 

“No. But you were up here the other morning, 
weren’t you?” 

“You had your breakfast yesterday, didn’t you?” 
replied Verity, quietly. “And I saw you eat an excel- 
lent one again this morning.” 

“You can’t compare pictures to eggs and bacon,” he 
returned, with a slight, puzzled frown. 

“No, I shouldn’t think of doing so, though I did hear 
a man once say that a poached egg just broken into 
reminded him of a Turner landscape. But I confess 
that simile wouldn’t have occurred to me.” 

“You’re an odd little thing, Verity,” said Beatrice. 

217 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“I believe you could spend a morning quite happily all 
by yourself up here. ,, 

“Of course I could. Couldn’t you?” 

“Gracious, no. I should take to making grimaces at 
the faces on the wall, after the first half hour. Look 
at that man solemnly staring at us, ’ ’ she pointed to the 
Giorgione, “isn’t it enough to give you fits? People in 
the flesh aren’t allowed to stare at you so, or else you 
speak to a policeman, and I can’t see why people in paint 
should bore holes in you. Distinctly uncomfortable, I 
call it. I don’t mind landscapes so much.” 

“That’s the famous Giorgione, isn’t it?” said Falk- 
ner, examining it. “I believe Rees was offered a big 
sum for it a few years ago, but he wouldn’t sell it. 
I told him he was an ass at the time. He was jolly hard 
up, too, as I happen to know.” 

Something flashed into Verity’s eyes that was not in- 
dicative of agreement with the last speaker. 

“If you ask me,” continued Captain Falkner, “I be- 
lieve pictures bore nine people out of ten, and the tenth 
could do without them. Talk about influencing the 
masses and teaching ’em things! People go into picture 
galleries to keep appointments, or to get out of the 
rain.” 

Very soon Verity made an excuse to leave them, for 
Falkner’s conversation did not amuse her. It was ru- 
mored that he was very good company in the smoking- 
room and after the ladies had withdrawn at the dinner 
table, but that is not the art of polite conversation as 
generally understood. She wondered how Beatrice could 
fall in love with him. 

As she went up to her room to tidy herself before 
lunch, she was given some letters which had just arrived. 
One, which had the New York postmark, she could make 
nothing of at first. It was evidently a request from a 
dressmaker, rather impatiently worded, for the settle- 
ment of a big account. Then, at last, Verity turned to 
the envelope and saw that it was addressed to Mrs. Mar- 

218 


NOT A MAORI CHIEF 


lowe, and had evidently been given to her in mistake. 
Verity read it again in surprise. Why should the dress- 
maker be so urgent in asking for a settlement? They 
were rich; why did the woman worry? And if, as she 
said, she had requested payment several times before, 
why did not her mother pay her and dismiss the matter? 
She knew practically nothing about their financial affairs, 
save that she would inherit a large sum of money on her 
wedding-day. But she supposed that her mother had the 
use of it, and an ample fortune of her own. Philippa 
always dressed very extravagantly, and always took the 
most luxurious rooms at hotels. As she brushed her 
hair, she began to wonder. Was it only carelessness on 
her mother’s part? 

Then her thoughts flew to Beatrice Miller and the love 
scene she had unwillingly interrupted. She would have 
liked to congratulate Beatrice, but, under the circum- 
stances, she could not very well do so. She brushed out 
the little rebellious curls on her forehead, and wondered 
idly on the differences in women’s tastes. 

There was a tap at the door. 

‘‘Come,” called Verity. 

It was Beatrice Miller who entered. She disposed of 
her long, rather elegant form in a big chair, and leaned 
back as though ready for a chat. Her eyes were hard 
and calculating, but the mouth held a hint of unbridled 
passion. It was rather too wide and full, and the nos- 
trils of the well-shaped nose had the same defect. Some 
people maliciously averred that she had a touch of the 
tar brush about her, but if so it was long shrouded in 
obscurity. Her father, old Judge Miller, had been very 
well known in the South. Although only two years older 
than Verity, she dressed like a smart married woman, 
and her assurance matched her apparel. If Verity could 
handle a horse, she had complete assurance of her power 
to handle men; but so far the good settlement in life that 
she coveted was not hers. 

“I wish I had your hair, Verity,” she remarked lazi- 
219 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


ly, as though she had not come to the room for any spe- 
cial object. “Mine is the color of wet sand on the 
seashore. I hate it, and it’s awfully difficult to match 
for switches.’ ’ 

“Well, I wish mine would lie smoother,” returned 
Verity, brushing for all she was worth. “I do hate hair 
that will keep on twiddling.” 

“Verity,” said Beatrice, looking at her calmly, “why 
did you pretend that you didn’t see Captain Falkner and 
myself in the gallery?” By Verity’s start, Beatrice saw 
that her suspicions were correct. 

“Really, Beatrice, I didn’t hear you come in and then 
— then ’ ’ 

It was Verity who blushed, not Beatrice. Beatrice 
laughed. “I remember. Then you heard the sound of a 
kiss. It was awkward for you. I was pretty sure you 
must have been a witness.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Verity, “but as you have spoken of 
it, I want to offer you my congratulations. I am so 
glad.” 

“Congratulations? On what, my dear?” Her lip 
curled bitterly, and at that moment her face was not very 
pleasant to look upon. 

“Aren’t you — aren’t you going to marry him?” fal- 
tered Verity, tucking a hairpin in its place. 

Beatrice laughed again. “Marry him! What makes 
you think that? No, there is no chance of my marrying 
him — worse luck.” 

Verity stared at her in bewilderment. Somehow 
Beatrice always made her feel very ignorant and girlish. 

“My dear Miss Unsophistocated, one doesn’t marry 
every man one kisses.” Then her expression changed. 
“It’s all very well for you, Verity. You’re an heiress. 
I’m not. I’m poor, beastly poor, and a man like Captain 
Falkner can’t afford to marry me. I wish, in this case, 
I had some money. Then — Oh, well, I haven’t, so it’s 
no use thinking about it.” 

“But if he loves you,” said Verity, “can’t you ” 

220 


NOT A MAORI CHIEF 


“You don’t understand. He likes me well enough, 
but I dare say he likes a lot of other women, too. He’s 
an awful flirt; still I could have him for a husband, right 
enough, if I could bring him some money.” 

“But, surely Captain Falkner has some money? He 
is in a smart regiment, I was told.” 

Beatrice made an impatient movement. “It’s enough 
for himself, but it’s not enough for two. Besides, even 
if he wanted to live in genteel poverty with me, I 
wouldn’t let him. I don’t want a poor man, thank you. 
I’ve had enough of struggling to keep up a good appear- 
ance. You don’t appreciate your luck in being an 
heiress, Verity. You can get practically anything you 
want. You can pick and choose. I’ve got to be picked!” 

“It sounds as if one were buying a pair of gloves,” 
said Verity, in a low tone. 

“Well, this isn’t Utopia, it’s the marriage market of 
the twentieth century. My dear girl, mind you don’t 
come a cropper with your romantic ideas.” 

Evangeline’s warning again! Verity wondered what 
was wrong with her, that she felt so differently from 
these women. 

“The reason I came in to see you was that I didn’t 
want you to say anything about what you — er — heard. ’ ’ 

“As if I should,” flashed Verity, indignantly. 

“I didn’t mean it nastily, but I thought you might 
jump to some conclusion that — well, as you did. Kisses 
and matrimony don’t necessarily go together. . . . And 
I don’t want mommer to know. She thinks it’s a mis- 
take to flirt; she says it lessens your chances of matri- 
mony. Well, that’s all right in its way, but you might 

as well flirt with men like Captain Falkner. It passes 

the time and keeps your hand in. I knew he was no good 
for a wedding-ring. . . . He’s after the dollars, too. He 
was making up to your mother, till I told him that you 
were the goose with the golden eggs. And as his mother 
happens to be a German baroness, he was no good for 
you. ’ ’ 


221 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“I don’t understand,” said Verity. ”1 don’t want 
Captain Falkner, but what difference does his mother 
being a German baroness make?” 

It was Beatrice’s turn to stare now. Her mouth 
dropped open in astonishment, as the significance of 
Verity’s remarks became plain to her. “Well, I declare! 
Do you mean you don’t know the conditions of your for- 
tune?” 

“No,” faltered Verity, turning very white, “I don’t 
believe I do.” 

This was most unexpected. It had never occurred to 
Beatrice that Verity had been brought over to England 
in ignorance of the real object of the visit. She had 
assumed that mother and daughter were working together. 
It was too good a chance to lose. Her curiosity was 
aroused as to how the girl would take it. She loved to 
dissect people and see them squirm. 

“Why,” she said, “you’ve got to marry an English- 
man, born of English parents and brought up in England, 
or else you lose the whole of your fortune, and your 
mother loses hers as well.” 

“You’re joking,” said Verity, incredulously. 

“I’m not. It’s gospel truth. Mr. Ridley is a cousin 
of ours, and he is one of your trustees, isn’t he?” 

Verity nodded. 

“He told us all about it at the time. . . . Fancy 
your not knowing it! Well, I declare!” 

She was a little disappointed in Verity’s reception of 
the news. She had hoped she would do something 
dramatic or explosive, but Verity made no sign of the 
tumult within her as she listened to Beatrice’s recital. 

“Of course, it’s very hard on your mother,” concluded 
Beatrice. “Instead of leaving her a nice comfortable 
sum at his death, he made it conditional upon your mar- 
riage. It must have been an awful blow to her. ’ ’ 

“I thought people only made these extraordinary wills 
in books,” said Verity, slowly. “It seems incredible 
that any one could tie up a woman’s choice like that. In 

222 


NOT A MAORI CHIEF 

anything else — in the choice of a profession — but in mar- 
riage !” 

“Well, marriage is a profession/' said Beatrice, 
dryly. “Marriage is a profession for a woman, and a 
pastime to a man. I don’t know that the will’s so very 
odd, either. A lawyer friend of mine tells me that he is 
always drawing up the most amazing wills, and that old 
people, especially, have all sorts of quaint fancies about 
their money. It’s a pretty easy condition, too. I know 
half a dozen Englishmen I’d marry if I’d got the chance. 
I’d have it, too, if I’d got your fortune.” 

The sound of the luncheon-bell put an end to their 
conversation. “Gracious,” said Beatrice, “I must go and 
put some powder on my nose. Well, anyway, Verity, 
things seem working out all right. You’ve got him 
quite at your feet. You’ve only got to snap. I guess 
your mother’s pretty clever.” She moved toward the 
door. “Say, you might let me be a bridesmaid at your 
wedding. Evangeline wouldn’t ask me — the pig!” 

Verity, left alone, felt almost inclined to pinch her- 
self to feel if she were awake. Was this thing true? 
Could it be? If so, why had her mother hidden the truth 
from her? Her thoughts were all confused, disordered, 
but she knew this was not the moment for arranging 
them. 

Mechanically, she descended the stairs, but she felt as 
though a new world had opened before her. 

She found Burford at the bottom of the stairs, wait- 
ing to take her in to lunch. Luckily, his shoulder had 
not been dislocated, only severely bruised. But it was 
very painful, and he was in considerable discomfort. 
He was quite unused to bearing pain, and he was dis- 
tinctly annoyed that he should have to suffer it. And the 
general buzz of interest in the assault added to his 
annoyance. It was no mystery to him, and he wanted to 
forget it. His aggrieved face cleared a little as he 
looked into Verity’s troubled one. 

“I say, you were unkind to desert me. I did think 
223 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


you were a pal. You might have cheered up my spirits. 
I can’t do a blessed thing. How’s your shoulder?” 

“Oh! mine was nothing. Is yours very bad?” 

“Rotten. Where have you been? I’ve been trying 
to find you. I believe you’ve been asleep. Your face 
looks all bewildered, and rather white.” He lowered his 
voice. “Dear Miss Marlowe, I’m so sorry such a thing 
should have occurred. I can’t tell you how sorry. I 
wish it had been any one but you, only then perhaps I 
shouldn’t have been alive to tell the tale.” He was a 
little solemn, for he did not like the idea of being 
snuffed out. 

“Oh! please, don’t talk like that,” pleaded Verity. 
“It makes me sound like that very tiresome creature — 
the fine and noble heroine of fiction who goes through 
life always turning up in the nick of time in order to 
save somebody from some deadly peril ! I always hated 
her, and longed to smother her. As a matter of fact, I 
don’t mind telling you now, I was desperately afraid of 
him, especially when I thought he was going to hit me in 
the face.” 

“You look considerably the worse for last night — 
both of you,” said Revel Dawburn, strolling up to them. 
“Suppose the police haven’t found any trace of the man? 
Have you no idea who it could be, Burford?” 

Burford shook his head. “No. A tramp I should 
think. . . . Let’s come in to lunch. Doing nothing and 
inward swearing has given me an appetite. Thank good- 
ness, I can eat.” 

“No idea at all who it might be?” persisted Daw- 
burn. “Could it be any one who might have a grudge 
against you?” 

“Some half-drunken man Bank-holidaying, I expect,” 
returned his host. “Did you get some good golf this 
morning? Whom did you get to take my place in the 
foursome?” 

Dawburn suspected that Burford knew more than he 
would tell. His keen lawyer eyes had detected that 

224 


NOT A MAORI CHIEF 


he was not overkeen to have the culprit caught, and, 
knowing the ways of men and women, he said no more. 

After luncheon, Verity followed her mother upstairs 
to her room, where, in the early afternoon, Philippa 
always made a point of giving herself and her fellow- 
guests a rest. 

“You and Sir Burford have made yourselves quite 
notorious/ ’ she said, lazily, picking up a novel from the 
table. “I feel like the mother of a celebrated daughter 
to-day. Shoulder still sore, honey?’ ’ 

She looked up into the girl’s face, and she saw imme- 
diately that something had happened. Verity’s eyes 
were fixed on her face with an intent look, and the 
happy, girlish smile had gone from her young lips. 
They were set together hard, as if she was trying to keep 
in her unhappiness. 

“Verity, dearest, is anything the matter?’’ 

“Mother, is it true that I have got to marry an Eng- 
lishman, or we both forfeit all grandfather’s money?” 

Verity never beat about the bush at any time, but she 
was so direct and unexpected now that Philippa could 
find no words to answer her. 

“Yes, I see it is true. Oh, how shameful!” 

“Verity, who told you?” 

“Oh! it doesn’t matter who told me. . . . All that 
matters is that it is true. ’ ’ She turned away and buried 
her face in her arms on the mantelpiece. 

Philippa tried hard to collect her scattered wits. She 
had need of all her tact and diplomacy. Why should 
Verity have been told just at this moment, when every- 
thing seemed shaping itself toward the desired end? 

“Listen, child. It is perfectly true that your grand- 
father did make a will in those terms, but you need not 
be so heartbroken about it. There is no necessity for 
you to marry an Englishman unless you happen to fall in 
love with one. The will does not really fetter your 
choice. You lose your fortune, that is all.” 

“And yours, mother. That’s true, too?” 

16 225 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

“Yes. . . . We stand or fall together. ” 

“Why wasn’t I told before?” 

“I purposely didn’t tell you. I wanted you to make 
your choice quite freely.” It was only half the truth, 
as Philippa was uncomfortably aware. “Perhaps I was 
wrong in not telling you — if so, try and forgive me. It 
was such a hateful will — such a disappointment to me — I 
hated even to speak of it. I was always meaning to tell 
you, and I always put it off to a more convenient oppor- 
tunity. . . . But you mustn’t consider me, child. I 
refuse to be a party to his wicked conditions.*’ 

Verity put her hand in her little gold purse. She 
pulled forth the letter she had received before luncheon. 
“I opened this by mistake, mother.” 

Philippa looked at it carelessly, and then tossed it 
into the fire. 

“Only a bill. She can wait.” 

“Mother, suppose — suppose I do not marry an Eng- 
lishman, that bill — does it mean that you owe a good 
deal of money, that you have been counting on benefiting 
under grandfather’s will?” 

Philippa was a little taken aback. “No,” she said, 
“it only means that I have thoughtlessly run up bills 
that I can’t pay. . . . Thousands of women do it. 
Dressmakers live on bills.” 

“If you can never pay?” 

Philippa shrugged her shoulders. “Thank goodness, 
one can’t be imprisoned for debt these days. And if I 
become a bankrupt — well, it’s a new experience, that’s 
all.” 

“Tell me something about my grandfather and why 
he made such a will.” 

Philippa told her everything. She gave her a glimpse 
of her unhappy married life, her cramped existence with 
the old man afterward; and, all unconsciously, she 
showed, by occasional words, how she had been counting 
on Verity’s fulfilling the conditions of the will. Phil- 
ippa’s rage against the Marlowes, father and son, still 

226 


NOT A MAORI CHIEF 


burned fiercely, though the grave had long closed over 
them. She longed as ardently as ever to see Verity in 
possession of the cantankerous old man’s money: she had 
thought of it and hoped for it ever since they had tried 
to “reverse the engines” in the school-room. It was 
true she was in debt herself, and bit by bit her liabilities 
had increased alarmingly; but that was a very unimpor- 
tant and faint flame to that which urged her to bring 
about a marriage between Verity and an Englishman. 
She could at one time have had her debts paid and her 
future assured by marrying Holt Vicary. Apparently 
she had lost the chance now, for Holt seemed to have 
transferred his affections to Mrs. Townsend. The hope 
of revenge had smoldered in her heart for eight years 
and more: it had grown to a big flame, so big that Verity 
felt its heat. Her mother might say that she did not 
mind whom Verity married, so long as she was happy, 
but Verity knew what was at the bottom of her heart. 

Philippa laid a hand on her shoulder, and turning 
her daughter’s perplexed little face toward her, she 
dropped a kiss on it. “Don’t let us think any more 
about the ridiculous old will. You shall do exactly as 
you please. You shall marry any man you fancy, be he 
English or Chinese.” 

“But you would like me to marry an Englishman?” 
said Verity, drawing a deep breath. 

Philippa laughed. “Don’t you think you might— 
might have a worse fate? Englishmen are supposed to 
make excellent husbands. Mrs. Miller says they make an 
art of domesticity.” 

“Father was English?” said Verity, recalling her 
mother’s story. 

Philippa’s face changed. “Yes, but he was brought 
up in the United States by very narrow-minded, viru- 
lently English parents. I don’t think it was a happy 
conjunction. And anyway, child,” she said, hesitat- 
ingly, “your father was not of the same class of English- 
man as those — those you are now mingling with.” 

227 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


Verity nodded. “I see. Does that make a great 
deal of difference?” 

“Well, like Dinah and the Colonel’s lady, all men are 
much the same under their skin. But, yes, it does make 
a difference. All Englishmen are not brutes to their 
wives, any more than all Americans speak through their 
noses.” She caressed Verity’s soft cheek. “Marry the 
man you want, even if he be a Maori chief.” 

Verity’s eyes twinkled. She had somewhat recovered 
from the shock, and her sense of humor was returning. 
“But you didn’t take me to New Zealand, mother. You 
hadn’t got your eye on a Maori chief, had you?” 

Philippa laughed. “There may be one in England, 
who knows? And, anyway,” answering the implied ques- 
tion, “it’s part of every American girl’s education now 
to see Europe.” 

“That is so. Well, I guess I’m enjoying myself 
pretty much.” She sprang lightly to her feet, and then 
she winced. “Oh! my shoulder!” 

“Well, if you will protect and save the lives of good- 
looking young Englishmen ” 

But with a moue, Verity had danced out of the room. 
Then she put her head round the door again and said, 
mischievously, “Well, it had nothing to do with the old 
will, anyway!” 

Philippa gave a big sigh of relief. She knew that a 
great peril was now safely passed. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE LITTLEST THING 

“Well, I’m damned,” said George Bradley, staring 
at a cablegram. 

“What’s the matter?” inquired Philippa, startled, 
for George seldom used strong language. “Has Veronica 
married some one else in mid-ocean?” 

“No, but Fve got to go back to New York at once. 
Old Ridley has just died.” Ridley was Verity’s other 
guardian and executor under her grandfather’s will, and 
the active man of business. George was what Philippa 
called the “integrity” side. 

“Surely you don’t have to go immediately? Can’t 
you wait to welcome Veronica?” 

“The cablegram is very urgent. Veronica won’t be 
here for six days, for the only passage she could get was 
on a slow boat. . . . Oh, hang it!” Poor George looked 
dismally at his sister, who could, not resist a smile. 

“It’s rough luck, but, George, the idea of you and 
Veronica playing hide-and-seek after all these years is 
rather funny. You’ve lived calmly within a few blocks 
of one another for ten years, and now you both start 
being ardent, because you are parted. In your case 
it was the watched pot that never boiled.” 

George groaned, and looked at the obnoxious cable 
again. 

“And you’ll miss Evangeline’s wedding,” added 
Philippa. 

“I shall miss my own, which is much more impor- 
tant,” replied George. 


229 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


Philippa laughed. “What, were you going to carry 
Veronica off the moment she arrived?’ ’ 

“Sure. I guess we’ve waited long enough. I was 
going up to-morrow to procure a special license and wave 
it at her from the quay. And now — oh, it’s too bad!’’ 

“I’ll look after her. I’ll wave the license if you 
like.” 

“No, thank you. You might use it yourself if I gave 
it to you. When you’ve got a license in your pocket, 
you feel you must go and use it. . . . Well, I’d better 
find out what boat I can catch. I fancy there’s a White 
Star sailing to-morrow.” 

“Would you like Veronica to chase back after you as 
soon as she lands?” teased Philippa. 

She ducked as George with returned good humor 
flung a cushion at her. Then he went off in search of his 
host to explain matters, and to find out the first moment 
he could sail. 

Burford’s shoulder had been so painful that he had 
had to abandon several engagements in Town, and, under 
the circumstances, he had decided to remain down at 
Lyndhurst. He had pulled a long face and begged some 
of the party to remain and keep him company. So Phil- 
ippa had stayed on, as well as George; Verity had that 
morning gone up to town under the energetic wing of 
Evangeline, to see about her bridesmaid’s dress. Lady 
Finborough and her son, Charles, who welcomed a respite 
from the wedding preparations, had also remained. 
Verity was to return at the end of the week, when another 
batch of guests was expected. 

“I’m awfully sorry, old chap,” said Burford, who 
had heard the story of Veronica from Philippa, “I’m 
sorry to lose you and — so will the lady be, I suppose.” 

“I hope so,” said George, fervently. “Funny how 
Fate forgets all about you for years, and sort of shunts 
you on a siding to wait while all the other traffic goes 
along, and then gets a desperate hurry-up on when you’re 
not ready for it.” 


230 


THE LITTLEST THING 


Burford nodded lazily. “All the same, I can’t fancy 
myself waiting ten years for a woman. There have been 
other women, of course?” 

“No. My horizon is rather small. It contains only 
Veronica,” said George, simply, hunting through The 
Times for the steamship news. Then, humorously, “If 
she would only have got out of the way, I might have 
had a chance of falling in love with some one else, but 
like the perverse, delicious person she is, she insisted on 
taking up all the room; and yet she wouldn’t consent to 
marry me.” 

Burford looked at him reflectively. “I should say it 
takes a woman of character to block your horizon for ten 
years. I suppose I’m different, or the women I have 
known have been different. ... It seems to me some- 
times that you American men — well, give more to, and 
exact a bit more from, your women.” 

“It’s part of our respect for women. They say 
women reign in our country. Well, we give them the 
throne, but we expect them to act up to their position. 
But don’t you exact certain things from women?” 

“From the one we marry— yes. But there are such a 
lot of women in the world. Temptatious place, isn’t it?” 

“Contempt for women is really a return to savagery, 
isn’t it?” said George, mildly. 

“It’s easy to see you haven’t done much roaming, my 
boy . . . when your horizon is blocked, perhaps you can 
keep some illusions. When she’s like a peach on the 
wall, a woman is always alluring, but when she’s in your 
arms she generally sets your teeth on edge. Goodness 
knows why one eats that kind of fruit. ... I say, I’ve 
been driveling with an object, Bradley. It never struck 
you I was a plaster saint, did it?” 

“No, I can’t say it did,” replied George. “But I 
never go around looking for saints. Modern saints are 
like the old furniture in antique shops — mostly fakes.” 

Burford gave a sigh of relief. “That’s all right. 
Only it puts you in a false position when people canonize 

231 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


you. . . . I’m the average sort of man, and I’ve lived 
the average sort of life, which isn’t saying much, I sup- 
pose. Look here, Bradley, you are the only guardian to 
Miss Marlowe now, and you’re going away. I don’t 
want to seem to take any advantage of your absence, 
at the same time I can’t play a waiting game like you 
can. Have I your consent to propose to Verity?” 

Their eyes met squarely over the paper. Burford’s 
face was more serious than usual, and for a moment the 
lazy indifference in his eyes had disappeared. 

* ‘You’re putting rather a responsibility on me,” said 
George, slowly, “but — if you love her, go in and win.” 

“Well, I never felt for any woman as I feel for her,” 
said Burford, with the embarrassment of the Englishman 
discussing his love affairs. “I never thought I could 
miss a woman as I’ve missed her the last two days. I 
had a jolly good mind to follow her up to Town yesterday, 
only my confounded shoulder stopped me. . . . She’s the 
sweetest, freshest thing I’ve ever struck, and she’s got 
any amount of spirit and pluck. The way she gripped 
that villain in the avenue that night. . . . She’s the real 
thing, isn’t she?” 

George had never seen Burford display so much 
enthusiasm. There was a ring in his voice, a sort of 
naive surprise at his own feelings, that reassured him. 

“I’m very fond of Verity,” said George. “We’ve 
been great chums ever since I used to wear out the knees 
of my trousers for her on the nursery floor. It is the 
dearest wish of my life, next to making Veronica happy, 
to see Verity happy. She’s got an enormous capacity for 
happiness, but there’s the other side of the picture. She 
would suffer pretty badly if a man failed her.” 

“I’d try and make her happy, if she’d have me,” 
said Burford, soberly. 

It was the first time he had ever thought of making a 
woman happy in his life. Always they had ministered 
to his happiness, as his right and their privilege. It was 
the view of the average man. 

232 


THE LITTLEST THING 


“Well, I say again, go in and win,” returned George. 
He held out his hand over the table and they gripped 
with a good understanding. They had always “taken” 
to one another, and in his quiet, unobtrusive way George 
had watched his host, and he had come to some conclu- 
sions which justified him in speeding his suit. And the 
way in which Verity had fitted into the life at Lyndhurst 
had seemed a happy omen to George; for home surround- 
ings mean much more to a woman than to a man. There 
was no doubt that Verity would love her home. 

When Verity returned at the end of the week, 
George's place was empty. He and Veronica were pass- 
ing one another on the bosom of the ocean. 

Burford did not see Verity till she was dressed for 
dinner. That night she was wearing a particularly 
charming dress of some delicate shade of apricot, but 
cloudy and pale. It clung to her slim figure as though it 
loved the girlish curves. It was cut short for dancing, 
for there was to be a “small and early” dance that even- 
ing, to which some of the county people had been invited. 
Verity had very small feet and hands, and her apricot 
satin shoes, with their beadingsof seed pearl, first caught 
Burford' s attention as she came down the broad stair- 
case. Her abundant hair, with its ruddy gleam that 
harmonized so well with the tint of her frock, was piled 
in those soft curls which only a French maid can achieve, 
and her small, eager face, under the mass of hair, looked 
particularly winsome and bright. Perhaps because of 
his own rather lazy, indifferent outlook on life, the out- 
look of a man of lethargic temperament, who has never 
found any necessity to exert his full strength, he was 
attracted by Verity's spirit and enjoyment of life. He 
liked to interest her and see that golden flame leap up in 
her eyes; he liked to see her lips part eagerly, ready 
to contest his purposely cynical speeches. He felt sure of 
her liking, but as he watched her he acknowledged to 
himself that he had no idea whether she regarded him in 
the light of a possible husband. He had seen her with 

233 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


other men, and with them she had much the same 
camaraderie, the same unconsciousness of self. She was 
in the happy frame of mind in which she loved all the 
world, and found every human being interesting. She 
never blushed shyly, or giggled when he paid her compli- 
ments, as other young girls might; but, on the other 
hand, she did not give him those subtle glances of encour- 
agement, the looks of understanding, by which a mature 
woman makes known her preference to a man. Burford 
could not recall that he had ever been in doubt of a 
woman’s answer to his wooing; more often no questions 
or answers had been needed ; but with this quite young 
girl, inexperienced but not gauche , he realized that he 
was absolutely at sea. She liked Lyndhurst, but how 
much did she like its owner? Burford was keen enough 
to realize that she was no ordinary title-hunting Ameri- 
can heiress. He realized that she would not marry him 
unless she cared for him. And did she? All at once he 
felt unexpectedly modest about himself. Even his long 
list of victories with women did not seem at the moment 
to count very much. 

In his position as host, he had but little time to devote 
to any one person, but he constantly watched her as she 
laughingly chatted with first one and then the other. 
Several people, among them some of his most important 
neighbors, he made a special point of introducing to her. 
He wanted to see how she would conduct herself in gen- 
eral society. And, though inexperienced, she displayed 
such a happy tact, and talked so brightly and so well, 
that there was no doubt of the favorable impression she 
produced. Indeed, one wealthy young man was so ob- 
viously smitten, that Burford regretted he had intro- 
duced him. 

He had sent up to Town for some magnificent carna- 
tions, which he knew she particularly loved, and she was 
wearing a couple of dark red ones held by a diamond 
brooch in her corsage. Was this encouragement? Both 
his partners found him rather distrait and monosyllabic 

234 


THE LITTLEST THING 


during dinner, but as old Lady Pemberthy was a great 
talker, and Mrs. Roland, the wife of the M.P. for the 
county, a greater eater, it did not so much matter. But 
Burford was mostly occupied in watching a little group 
half-way down the table, in the center of which was 
Verity, demurely drawing out the wealthy young man 
regarding the habits and food of her own country. The 
young man’s ideas of America seemed to be a wild hash of 
all the newspaper reports and paragraphs he had ever read. 

As the ladies were filing out of the room to leave the 
men to enjoy their cigars and liquors, Burford whispered 
in Verity’s ear, “Please save me the first dance.’’ 

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve promised it to Mr. Cox.’’ 
This was the naive young man. 

“Oh! nonsense, the first dance always belongs to the 
host,’’ fibbed Burford. “It’s an old English custom that 
he should have any one he fancies!’’ 

Verity raised her eyebrows. “Won’t you fancy me 
for the second dance?’’ 

“Yes,’’ said Burford, promptly, “and the third, but 
I must have the first. Give Cox his conge.” 

Verity laughed, and floated past him toward the door; 
the perfume from the carnations lingered pleasantly 
behind her. 

Presently the guests for the dance began to arrive, 
and there was a pleasant scraping of violins from the 
small orchestra which had come down from Town. It 
was one of the best in London, for when Burford did any- 
thing he always did it well, and, Lady Finborough said, 
with unnecessary expenditure. 

Verity was very fond of dancing, and the prospect of 
it filled her with delight. She could hardly keep her 
feet still. 

The scraping ceased. Then the opening bars of the 
waltz came from the little gallery, in perfect time and 
rhythm. Verity mischievously watched her two partners 
advance toward her. Burford was a little the nearer, 
and he reached her first. 


235 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Our dance/ ’ he said, offering her his arm. 

“But I told you I promised Mr. Cox ” 

“That doesn’t matter. Cox can find another partner. 
Like his cheek, asking you for the first dance, when he 
has only known you a few minutes. Why, we’re old 
friends. Come along.” He tucked her hand in his 
arm, and they found themselves confronting a startled 
Mr. Cox. 

“Oh! Cox,” said Burford, coolly, “Miss Marlowe was 
unaware of the unwritten, law by which an English host 
always dances the first dance with a trans- Atlantic cousin, 
should one be present. I apologize to you for her.” 

“But — but,” said Cox, “when may I ?” 

“Say you’re engaged for the next ten,” whispered 
Burford in her ear. 

Eventually Cox was got rid of, and Burford carried 
his partner off. 

“You behaved very badly,” scolded Verity, “and Mr. 
Cox will think it was all my fault. He will tell people 
after this that Americans have no manners. ’ ’ 

Burford ’s only answer was to encircle her waist with 
his arm, and something that was almost like a thrill — 
only he knew that he was too old to experience such a 
feeling — shot through him at her nearness. Her waist 
was small and lissom, and the smell of the carnations was 
so powerful that ever afterward he always associated 
that evening with the smell of carnations. He swung 
her off to the music. Verity gave a little sigh of happi- 
ness. 

“What’s that for?” he said, softly. 

“I thought you’d dance well. Somehow one always 
knows when a man will dance well. I was rather doubt- 
ful of Mr. Cox.” 

“Look,” said Burford. He indicated the dismissed 
Cox, who was frowning over the shoulder of a girl: danc- 
ing as though it were some physical exercise, to be 
worked at steadily and strenuously. And he was horribly 
out of time. 


236 


THE LITTLEST THING 


“See what I saved you from! Forgive me for carry- 
ing you off, but I wanted this dance so badly. It was 
bad enough to be separated from you all dinner-time, 
but that Cox should then monopolize you — no, sir, as you 
say.” 

After a pause Verity asked, “Is your shoulder quite 
well? Doesn’t this give you twinges?” 

“Well, luckily it’s my left. It’s much better now.” 

“You didn’t hear anything more of the man? You 
didn’t catch him?” 

“No, but,” said Burford, forgetting himself, “that 
will be the finish of him. He won’t molest me any 
more.” 

“Why?” said Verity. “Did you find out who it 
was?” 

“Er — no, no. Only, I mean, it’s very rare that a man 
attacks you again. It’s the same principle as having a 
fire, you know. ’ ’ 

Half-way through the evening, he found himself sit- 
ting with Verity in the hall, in the intervals of a dance. 
They had been talking about secret passages and springs 
in the walls. Verity put her fingers up against the old 
oak paneling. “I suppose none of these panels fly open?” 

“No,” said Burford, “but there is a secret staircase 
which is reached from a panel in the picture gallery.” 

“Oh! I should like to see it,” said Verity, eagerly. 
“May I, some time?” 

“Come now. I’ll show it to you — that is, if I can 
find the spring. I haven’t touched it for years. Per- 
haps I’ve forgotten.” 

They ascended the staircase to the first floor, on 
which, in the left wing, the gallery opened. The gallery 
was fully lit, but nobody was up there. Verity recalled 
the last time she had been there, when Beatrice and 
Captain Falkner had made use of it. 

Burford led her up to the Giorgione picture of the 
young man, which Verity liked so much. 

“Now, this chap is on the panel. The whole panel, 
237 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


picture and all, opens inward. The spring is a bit diffi- 
cult to find. Let me see if I remember . . . there 
should be a knob in one of these oak sprays . . . no, 
that’s not the one ... it was eighteen from the floor, I 
think . . . seventeen — eighteen — ah! presto!” The 
panel swung inward, with the picture of the young man 
on it. 

“Oh! how exciting!” cried Verity. She peered into 
the dark hole. “What is there?” 

“There’s a staircase which leads up to a small room. 
You can see the little window from the front of the 
house, if you know where to look for it.” 

“Do let’s go up,” said Verity, with childish curios- 
ity. “Oh! I must go up. I do want to see the little 
room.” 

“You’ll get your pretty dress dusty,” returned Bur- 
ford, doubtfully. “It’s quite safe, but I should say 
abominably dusty.” 

“I can hold my skirts up. Oh! do let me go up.” 

What a child she was! He smiled at her very ten- 
derly, but she did not notice it. She was peering up the 
steep flight of mysterious-looking stairs. 

“Well, let me go up first,” he said. “Besides, we 
shall want a light. No electric light in the secret cham- 
ber, you know.” 

He took out his match-box from his pocket, and 
stepped over the piece of paneling at the foot. The 
stairs were narrow and steep, and seemed to go up a long 
way. Verity watched the flame of the match get smaller 
and smaller. Then the match disappeared. She waited 
a minute, then she heard a voice, which sounded rather 
unfamiliar and hollow, say, “It’s not so dusty as I 
thought. And there’s a few inches of candle been left 
up here. I’ll hold it aloft for you to see your way up. 

. . . Be careful! the stairs are rather steep, but they’re 
too narrow for me to help you if I came down again.” 

But Verity soon skipped nimbly up the stairs. They 
did not appear so narrow to her as to the big man who 

238 


THE LITTLEST THING 


owned them. When she reached the top, she found her- 
self in a small, odd-shaped room that contained a rickety 
worm-eaten table, a big armed chair with a wooden 
seat, a couple of rusty swords suspended from one of the 
walls, an old oak coffer, and a few broken, very dusty 
chessmen on the table. The stump of candle showed all 
there was to see, as Burford held it aloft for -her. 

Verity was enchanted. She sat in the big wooden 
chair, looking like a well-turned out fairy, and surveyed 
her surroundings with curiosity. “And people have 
really been hidden here?” she said. 

“Yes. There was a namesake of mine who was no 
better than he should have been, I expect, who hid here 
in this chamber for six weeks during the time of the 
Commonwealth. Look, here is his name scrawled on the 
wall. ‘Burford D. Rees.’ He lived to fight another 
day, and then died in battle. . . . Shouldn’t care to 
spend six weeks here myself. He used to come out at 
night, and exercise himself in the gallery.” 

Suddenly, in looking around, Verity spied a cricket 
bat in one corner. 

“A cricket bat! Not belonging to Burford D. 
Rees,” she said. 

“No. ... By Jove! it is one of mine.” He took it 
up with the smile one always keeps for treasures of one’s 
childhood. They both examined it. “Here’s my name 
scratched on the bat.” 

“And what’s that bracketed with it? Is it— ? Why 
it’s — M — a — u — d.” 

Burford laughed heartily as he put it back in the cor- 
ner. “An early love. I seem to remember the name, 
but whether she was fair or whether she was dark, 
whether she loved me or whether she did not, I have no 
recollection.” 

Verity began to hum the words of a song: 

‘ ‘ Old love, new love, what are you worth ? 

Only a song, only a song, 

Tra la la, tra la la.” 

239 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


She sang it softly, with a little air of mischief, as 
she leaned her head against the back of the tall wooden 
chair. Her eyes gleamed provocatively in the dim light. 

“Do you think love is worth — only a song?” he said, 
watching her. 

“Some songs are very beautiful,” replied Verity, 
evasively. * 

Then he noticed what seemed to him a shadow on her 
shoulder, for the little sleeve had slipped over her arm. 
He moved the candle, but the shadow did not disappear. 

He went up to her so abruptly that she started, and 
held the arms of the chair. 

“What is that on— on your shoulder? Is it— not the 
bruise that brute ?” 

Verity pulled the sleeve up quickly. “Yes, it’s a 
lovely shade of green tinged with a most artistic streak 
of yellow. Does it look very ugly?” 

“Verity, I didn’t know. ...” He stopped, over- 
come by the sight of what he could see must have been a 
very painful bruise. One little hand dangled over the 
arm of the chair, and he stooped and pressed his lips to 
it. The perfume of the carnations enveloped them both 
in their sweetness. He felt, rather than saw, that the 
flowers on her bosom were agitated by the quickness of 
her breathing. When he raised his eyes to her face 
there were two bright spots of color on her cheeks, but 
her eyes fell before his. 

“Verity,” he said, “I believe you saved my life that 
night in the avenue. Why did you do it?” 

There was no answer, and he kept her hand in his. 

“Won’t you tell me why you did it?” 

“Because— because I didn’t want to see you killed, I 
suppose,” said Verity, rather unsteadily. 

Would you have done the same for any man you 
might have happened to be walking with?” 

“How can I tell?” said Verity, trying to break the 
tension with a little laugh. “It doesn’t happen every 
day.” 


240 


THE LITTLEST THING 


Burford turned and went over abruptly to the little 
window. Then he came back to her. 

'‘You didn’t answer my question just now. Do you 
think love is worth — only a song?” Then, not waiting 
for her answer, he continued: ‘‘Until quite lately I 
thought that was the value of love, when I thought about 
it at all. But I know differently now. And some one 
has taught me the meaning of the word love. May I tell 
you who it is?” 

The color had faded from her cheeks and she was very 
pale, but the eyes shone more than ever in the gloom, as 
she made a faint inclination of her head. 

‘‘My teacher is quite a little person. I could pick 
her up in my arms and carry her down those stairs, if 
she would let me. She is five foot nothing, and beside 
her I look a great, hulking brute. I beg your pardon — 
did you say something?” 

‘‘No — yes. It is nice for a man to be big and tall.” 

‘‘Ah! but it’s all avoirdupois and no brain. She 
hasn’t told me so, but she must know it. Even when I 
was a kid, and used to play with that cricket bat in the 
corner, the nursery governess used to say that. She was 
quite right. I really am an awful fool, at most things. 
The only thing I can do that takes any brain power at all 
is to play bridge decently, and that’s a habit. . . . But, 
though this teacher of mine is the littlest thing, she has 
any amount of spirit and pluck and — and her pupil wor- 
ships her for it. She saved the great, big, hulking brute 
from death, or worse, the other night ” 

‘‘No, no,” cried Verity, ‘‘please don’t. I only did 
what any one would do.” 

She had risen from the chair, and stood nervously 
holding on to the back of it. He saw that she was trem- 
bling, and her lips, as she looked up into his face, quiv- 
ered like those of a child. 

‘‘And are you the littlest thing?” said Burford, very 
close to her, so close that he could see the satiny gleam 
of the skin on her bosom. ‘‘Are you the woman who has 
17 241 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


taught me to love? Why did you teach me that lesson, 
Verity? Is it possible that you take an — an interest in 
the pupil?” 

“I — I can’t believe it,” whispered the girl, steadying 
herself on the chair back. 

“What can’t you believe? That I love you? Look at 
me.” 

Slowly, almost fearfully, she lifted her big eyes to 
his. “Verity, you know I love you. You can see it for 
yourself. I didn’t know I could love any woman as I love 
you. . . . Verity, say you will try to love me. ... I 
want you to love me. . . 

His arms closed round her slight form, and the carna- 
tions were hopelessly crushed against his coat. First he 
kissed her gleaming hair and her closed eyes, and then 
the sweet girlish lips that met his with all the sweet pas- 
sion of surrender. The message of those lips was so clear 
that there was no need for more words. He knew that 
she loved him, that she had promised him everything in 
that one kiss. 

And as he held her in his arms he was strangely hum- 
ble for Burford Rees. He put behind him, in those few 
minutes in the secret chamber, all his acquired experience 
of women; he forgot that he had always been sceptical, 
that he had always denied the existence of anything but 
physical love. He did not understand or try to analyze 
his own feelings, but he knew that this was the end 
of his education of love. Verity, like Veronica, would 
block his horizon for the rest of his days. And Burford 
was content. 

The little sleeve had slipped off the shoulder again, 
and Burford stooped and tenderly kissed the eloquent 
discolored flesh. “What a beastly shame, darling. But 
my kisses will make it well.” 

“Do you think they are superior to embrocation?” 

“Vastly. Several applications, and it would be com- 
pletely cured.” Their foolish, happy laughter resounded 
through the little room. 


242 


THE LITTLEST THING 


Suddenly there was a weird illumination of the little 
chamber, as the candle made a last despairing effort to 
serve the lovers. 

“Oh, heavens !” laughed Verity, “the candle is going 
out. Come, we must make haste/ ’ 

“I can’t help it. I must have one more kiss.’’ The 
poor carnations were used most disgracefully again, but 
still they only breathed forth sweetness in return for the 
ill treatment. The candle bobbed and flickered. 

“Verity,” said Burford, a little solemnly, “promise 
me something. You said you couldn’t believe I loved 
you. Promise me, come what may, you will never doubt 
my love for you. We are bound to have our little differ- 
ences of opinion like other people, and you’ll probably 
find me a selfish, tiresome beast; but never doubt my love 
for you.” 

The candle, having done its duty nobly, expired sud- 
denly, and the room was in darkness. 

“I shall now, with my teacher’s permission, carry her 
down the stairs; because if she goes in front of me I am 
afraid she might fall, and if she descends at the back of 
me I can’t give her a helping hand.” 

He picked her up in his strong arms as easily as if 
she were a baby. Even while she protested at the indig- 
nity, Verity thrilled to the sense of his strength and 
manhood. It was a wonderful and new sensation. 

He cautiously made his way to the head of the stairs. 
Then there was a halt. 

“Oh! do go on,” said a smothered, laughing voice 
from his arms, “I’ve lost ever so many dances, and 
you’re ruffling my hair terribly. . . . And the next one 
was Mr. Cox’s — what shall I say to him?” 

“Tell him you’ve been engaged to me all the time, 
and there never was a ghost of a chance of your being 
engaged to him even for one dance. Cox, indeed! 
Darling, I must kiss you again, though we’re in the 
most precarious position. . . . Now, littlest thing, en 
i want, , . 


243 


CHAPTER XXII 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 

Verity’s engagement was most popular, both with the 
two families, and also among the friends she had made 
since her arrival in London. Lady Finborough loudly 
gave all the praise to Providence, otherwise God, when 
she might legitimately have taken a good deal to herself, 
without cheating the Almighty of any of his due. As 
she remarked to her husband — who never listened to her 
—all things considered, Burford had done very well for 
himself, and Verity was not making a bad bargain. 
Burford’s ultimate matrimonial fate had often given his 
sister a thoughtful half-hour, for the married elder sister 
of a bachelor always thinks that it is her duty in life to 
adjust and control his matrimonial or non-matrimonial 
ventures. She was so pleased with Burford’s engage- 
ment that she gave quite a handsome donation to the 
Additional Curates Fund. 

To Philippa it was a great relief, also, almost greater 
than she admitted to herself. Verity’s spirit and tem- 
perament had always made the outcome of their visit to 
England uncertain, and Philippa had never meant or 
intended to do any more than lead the horse gently to 
the water, and, if necessary, use a little persuasion to 
make it drink. But everything had fallen out admirably. 
She more than approved of her son-in-law — that such a 
relation could exist between them seemed almost ludi- 
crous— and she genuinely liked him as a friend. Every- 
thing was prospering exceedingly, and yet 

“ 'An air of becoming thoughtfulness pervaded her 
features,’ ” a voice said behind her. 

244 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 


She was watching a Point-to-Point Meeting, to which 
Burford had taken a small party. Burford himself was 
riding in two of the events, and it was a function of 
some importance in the county. She turned to find Holt 
Vicary beside her. Then her quick glance took in the 
presence of Mrs. Townsend, a short distance away, chat- 
ting to Charles, whose ascetic face looked strangely out 
of place at a race meeting. They had not met for more 
than a fortnight, for Holt had been in Paris on business 
for his father. 

‘‘Which he noticed from behind her back,” retorted 
Philippa, looking up from under a most becoming feath- 
ered hat. 

“No, my eyes haven’t X-ray sight, Pm sorry to say. 
He has been watching the lady for some time, wondering 
why she was so lost in thought, and what she was think- 
ing about.” 

“Why do you look at me?” said Philippa. “Why 
don’t you watch the racing?” 

“I always make it a point to look at the prettiest 
object I can find, and the last race didn’t interest me very 
much. I had spotted the winner. ... Do you know you 
were looking almost — sad? Regard your daughter.” 
He nodded to where she was talking and laughing to 
Evangeline and Captain Falkner. “Look how radiant 
she is. Why aren’t you radiant?” 

“Are you intimating that I look very plain to-day?” 
asked Philippa. “When a man asks a woman why she 
doesn’t look like some one else, it always means that she 
is looking plain.” 

“Not at all. The thoughtfulness, taken in conjunc- 
tion with a very charming piece of millinery, is most 
becoming.” 

“Mrs. Townsend is looking very well,” she said in- 
consequently, glancing at the widow. 

“Yes: she’s one of the few Englishwomen who dress 
well, but then she’s got French blood in her veins, which 
accounts for it.” 


245 


THE HOSE WITH A THORN 


“Your friendship seems to be making very promising 
strides,” said Philippa, with the honey-sweet smile that 
always betokens danger. 

“I am glad you think so. One must console one’s 
self,’’ said Vicary, controlling a tendency to laugh, “and 
what is life worth without friends?’’ 

“Some people easily manage to console themselves. ’ 9 
She glanced at the starting-post, where the horses were 
gathered together for another race. “Which horse do 
you fancy?’’ 

“Yes, I envy those people,” returned Vicary. 
“Lucky beggars. I wish I were one of them.” 

Philippa shot him a glance of scorn, but he was busy 
examining the horses through his field-glasses. 

“Is Sir Burford in this race? No? Nice fellow. 
You’re really awfully lucky to have him as a son-in-law. 
Will he address you as mother?” 

But Philippa this time caught the laughter in his 
eyes. “No, we have arranged that he shall call me 
grandmother.” . . . Then she added, petulantly, “I re- 
fuse to be a mother-in-law. I won’t be classed with 
those middle-aged and done-for sort of people. I’m no 
older than Mrs. Townsend.” 

“Aren’t you?” said Vicary. “No, not in years, I 
suppose.” 

“What do you mean by that?” flashed Philippa, look- 
ing quite unlike any one’s mother-in-law. Holt noticed 
that her face in the sunlight was as fresh and unlined as 
Verity’s. 

“Well, there are so many things that walk hand-in- 
hand with youth that you don’t care about, things that 
interest Mrs. Townsend and myself.” 

“Yes? What, for instance?” 

“Oh! — well, love. Of course,” he added, quickly, “I 
know you can flirt — you did it rather well once — but that 
isn’t the same thing. I once heard some one describe 
flirting as the plaything of the very young and the 
diversion of the middle-aged. But love is different. 

246 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 

. . . Ah, they are off. Looks like being a good race, 
too.” 

Philippa gasped, but she could make no reply. The 
wind had been taken out of her sails. She realized that 
she, the dignified and stately Philippa, had been accused 
of flirting, like any bread-and-butter miss or coy, faded 
spinster. If she could protest that she had not been 
coquetting with him, her position was more undignified 
still, for Mrs. Townsend had evidently caught his heart 
at the rebound, and it would seem like offering goods for 
which there was now no demand. She tapped her foot in 
annoyance on the grass, and standing there beside him, 
watching his keen, clean-shaven face, so easily distin- 
guishable as that of an American, his typical American 
figure, rather short and square-shouldered, he seemed 
very desirable, and she wondered why she had played 
with him so long. Somehow, since Verity’s engagement, 
and consequent absorption in Burford, she had begun to 
feel a little homesick. The familiar accent was very 
comforting to her, after the sleeker voices of Burford 
and Overton and the other men by whom she found her- 
self surrounded. She did not love London as Verity did: 
she did not feel at home in it, although she was enjoying 
her stay and having a good time. Once or twice she had 
found herself looking forward to her return to New York 
in the fall. 

“How is Veronica?” inquired Vicary, after the horses 
had thundered past them. “Is she lamenting George’s 
absence?” 

“No, she is busy getting her trousseau.” 

“Well,” laughed Vicary, “there are enough weddings 
in the air now to make even the most sober-minded man 
lose his head and take the fatal turning that leads to the 
hymeneal altar. Don’t you think there is something 
about the perfume of orange blossom that is rather heady 
and intoxicating? You feel in a 'go thou and do like- 
wise’ sort of mood. But there, I know you don’t. You 
wouldn’t be disturbed by such a little thing. But Evan- 

247 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


geline’s cheerful energy and Verity’s radiance make me 
feel weepy and sort of left out in the cold. I forgot, 
though, you are not out of it. You are the dignified and 
gently tearful mother-in-law. I am merely one of the 
bride’s brothers.” 

Burford’s devotion to Verity afforded one of the sur- 
prises of Lady Finborough’s very worldly life. That her 
fastidious, blase brother should have fallen in love with 
his future wife, a mere slip of a girl, was the most 
amazing thing that had happened to her for many years. 
She knew him and his moods pretty thoroughly, and at 
first she thought that it was a clever piece of acting 
on his part. But she soon realized that it was something 
quite different, that he did really and truly love Verity. 
As she said to the unheeding Finborough, “a blue moon 
sometimes shines on a benighted world.” 

On the Tuesday after the race meeting, Evangeline 
Vicary was made the Viscountess Overton, by an impos- 
ing array of clergy, and before what the newspapers 
called “a fashionable and distinguished gathering.” 
Verity was one of the much remarked bevy of brides- 
maids. It was a gorgeous function, for Evangeline had 
sternly repressed an inclination on the part of her ner- 
vous, self-effacing bridegroom to curtail the ceremony 
and shear it of some of its fine feathers. Evangeline 
had always meant to have a big wedding, and the crowded 
church and throngs of guests amply gratified her. Verity 
noticed with wonder that she showed not the faintest 
nervousness or maidenly trepidation. Indeed, she was 
much more composed than her bridesmaids. Evangeline 
was quite prepared to make Charles a good wife, and she 
was determined that he should make her a good husband. 
Why, then, was there any cause for nervousness? 

But to Verity, who had only once in her life been at a 
wedding, the English prayer-book service, the swelling 
strains of the organ, the sweet voices of the choir boys in 
their spotless surplices, the dim glory of the old church, 
all made a great emotional appeal. She forgot the star- 

248 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 


ing, chattering, nudging crowd who were pointing her 
out as Sir Bur ford’s fiancee; she took no heed of the 
inquisitive, envious, indifferent eyes that surrounded 
her. Once she looked at Burford, who was a little in 
front of her, but his face was quite expressionless. She 
thought he looked rather bored, which he was. He had 
attended, much against his will, so many weddings. He 
had seen so many orange-blossom-decked brides, so many 
stiff, nervous bridegrooms, that the whole thing had 
ceased to have any meaning for him. He found it all 
extremely monotonous, and he wished the clergyman 
would hurry up and end it. 

Once Verity saw his brows meet in a frown as he 
stared absently at a bank of lilies and orchids. He was 
thinking of an incident which had happened as he 
entered the church. A woman had passed through the 
door just in front of him. She did not look at him, but 
he caught sight of her profile. It was Renee D’Almaine. 
She had passed round to one of the side pews, and he had 
lost sight of her. But her appearance had annoyed him. 
Why did she want to come to his nephew’s wedding? 
In spite of the scene with her returned husband, he had 
fulfilled his promise to start her in the new play, and he 
had supposed that she was by this time touring in the 
provinces. 

As a matter of fact, the tour had not yet started. 
Some of the other backers had not been quite so good as 
their word. It was nothing more than simple curiosity 
that had brought Renee to the wedding. She had seen 
the announcement of it in the paper, giving the names of 
the bridesmaids, and she had come to gratify her natural 
curiosity to see the woman her whilom lover was to 
marry. She did not know it was the girl Fido had bit- 
ten. A woman will always do these things, whereas a 
man will not cross the other side of the street to glance 
at the man to whom his old love has transferred her 
affections. 

She had no quarrel with Burford. He had treated 
249 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


her well as these matters go, the sale and exchange had 
been quite satisfactory. She had been just as annoyed as 
he at the scene which her husband had provoked. She 
had meant to upbraid him furiously when she should 
next see him, but to her surprise he had never come near 
the flat again. After a few days she came to the conclu- 
sion that he had been “run in, ” and that the roof of one 
of His Majesty’s many residences was once again shelter- 
ing him. Renee was by no means lacking in worldly 
acumen; she had a sort of gamin cleverness that carries 
so many of her profession into the bourne of titled 
respectability. She knew that Burford would never 
come back to her again. He had never been ardent, he 
was like a child who eats from the bag of sweets because 
it is lying at his elbow. Other men had said “good-by / 9 
and she had pretended to accept her dismissal, for she 
was too wise to make scenes. But generally she had 
wheedled them back to her side again. Her path in 
life was a sort of obstacle race over such obstructions 
as morality, conscience, satiety, and even miserliness. 
Only she and her like know how many sharp stones there 
are in the so-called primrose path of dalliance. But she 
did not attempt to attract Burford back to her side. 
Once he made up his mind Burford was hard to move, 
and his very laziness and indifference made such a task 
doubly difficult. Renee never wasted her strength in 
vain: she knew that she had need of it all in the autumn 
of her life, which was ominously looming. 

During the reception, Lady Margetson sauntered up 
to Burford with her calculatingly amorous eyes and her 
deliberately feline grace of movement. 

“What a bore these receptions are!” she said, smiling 
up into his face. “I am sure we all expiate some of our 
sins on these occasions.” 

It was indeed a crush, for Evangeline had invited 
many more guests than the exclusive Lady Finborough 
had approved. But Evangeline wanted a “big” wed- 
ding, and she had got her way, as usual. She had the 

250 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 


satisfaction of being admired by nearly the whole of 
fashionable London. The room held a wonderful display 
of dresses, although it was so crowded that the artistic 
triumphs of the modiste and milliner were a huge jum- 
ble of color and form, like a big nosegay picked haphaz- 
ard from the garden. People seemed to be talking all 
at once, and at the top of their voices. The heat was 
almost unbearable, and Burford, who did not stand 
the heat of a room well, was extremely uncomfortable. 
Lady Margetson, moreover, had him at a disadvantage, 
through the fact that she could stand such things with 
almost superhuman coolness. She was always impervious 
to changes of temperature, and she never seemed to be 
unduly hot or disheveled. Her smooth, fair skin never 
burned or flushed. Some one once said of her that her 
skin showed the temperature of her heart. 

Burford greeted her in his usual cool fashion, and 
tried to shield her from a fat dowager who was bearing 
down upon her, in her efforts to greet the bride. 

'‘Well, Burford, so you’re captured at last. Double 
the hare never so cleverly, he must be caught at last!” 

“You are not complimentary to your own sex!” 
retorted Burford, gently shoving the dowager to one 
side. 

His former flame watched his maneuvers with amused 
eyes. He had once been in love with her, many years 
ago, when her real character had not shone so unmistak- 
ably through the fair mask, when he had foolishly imag- 
ined that she cared for him and would marry him in 
spite of the fact that he would never be a rich man. It 
was his first experience of velvet-masked steel, and at 
the time it had been a shock. After she had married the 
money she coveted, coupled with a decadent and tiresome 
husband, she had intimated to him that there were other 
flowery paths besides the nuptial one. She had stood in 
front of one and gently beckoned him. But, to her sur- 
prise and mystification, he did not respond to her invita- 
tion. From the day that her engagement was announced, 

251 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


his lips had never touched hers, though several times she 
had temptingly held them very close to him. He had 
once put the adjective “good” against her name. The 
word was indistinct now, but he would not write another 
over it. Let other men tread with her the easy path 
which the commandments call by such an ugly name, but 
not the man who had once hoped to marry her. 

As she looked at him to-day, she felt again a strong 
twinge of annoyance at the failure of her confidently laid 
plan. Why had Burford rejected her overtures? She 
was beautiful, she was much sought after, and she had 
offered him first innings. Why? 

“Not a compliment to my sex?” she replied, while 
these thoughts chased through her active brain. “Why 
should I waste compliments on my sex? I don’t love it 
particularly — at least, only this specimen of it.” She 
tapped the exquisite laces on the bosom of her gown 
lightly. “When I see a lot of silly, bleating, round-eyed 
sheep in a field, I always liken them to my sex en bloc. 
I never trust a woman’s intelligence or her loyalty. No, 
I leave compliments to my sex to you. As you are 
marrying one of us, perhaps in the enthusiasm of the 
moment you can find something pretty from your reper- 
toire .” 

“I have no repertoire. Compliments seem rather use- 
less to me. Rather like unsigned checks, eh?” 

“Oh! well,” she smiled, “when you are married you 
can pay your wife a compliment, and she can pay you for 
it with a check.” 

She delivered the barbed witticism very neatly, but 
Burford’s face did not move a muscle. He looked down 
at her as though she had made a pleasant jest. 

“Oh! you place too high a value on my compliments. 
They are not worth even a small check, for I am invari- 
ably clumsy over them.” 

“Why do people shove so? Do you deny women are 
like sheep? Isn’t it ridiculous? But, my dear Burford, 
aren’t you taking risks?” she continued, in her cooing 

252 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 


voice, which could drug a man’s senses or lie away a 
woman’s character with equal ease. “Why did you 
choose an American and — and a young one?” 

“What nationality and age would you have recom- 
mended?” returned Burford, coolly. “It is no longer 
considered good form to marry a woman more than 
double your age, you know, and I was never much of a 
linguist. Americanese is substantially the same lan- 
guage as ours.” 

“Why didn’t you ask my advice, my dear boy? These 
international marriages want careful handling, which 
most people ignore. I’ve seen a good many American 
wives and English husbands since Mrs. Atherton wrote 
her book.” She idly broke off a tea rose from a vase of 
flowers at her elbow, and held it between her white- 
gloved hands up to her shapely nose. “And, on the 
whole, I don’t advise an American heiress if there is any- 
thing else going. It’s apt to be a deal of work for the 
money. Poor Tottenham! He’s abjectly miserable, and 
he thought the golden spoon was going to be filled with 
jam. But Lady Tottenham doesn’t let him call his soul 
his own, and as for his body— well!” She shrugged her 
shoulders. “It’s a case of sole- vested rights! American 
women have such ridiculous bourgeois notions about silly 
little things like that. They buy some property, gener- 
ally an old ruin, and when they sign for it at the altar 
they think they have got it, lock, stock, and barrel, and 
they won’t sublet to any one. How any woman could 
take that amount of interest in a mere husband I can’t 
think. . . . Does this Miss Marlowe show any signs 
of clinging to you? Does she possess a lot of Puritanical 
scruples beneath her skin? Because that’s fatal, Bur- 
ford. Check it in the bud.” 

“You don’t seem to like American women,” returned 
Burford, who was so tucked away with her in a corner 
between the wall and a mass of flowers that he could not 
very well leave her without seeming rude. Burford 
could on occasions be brutal, but never rude. 

253 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“I hate their Puritanical airs and graces,” she 
returned quickly, and with more malice than she usually 
openly displayed. “It wouldn’t matter if they hadn’t 
money to back them up. Morality is soon toppled off its 
pedestal, unless it’s stuck tight with gold — but, unfor- 
tunately, they have got the shekels. Do you know what 
American women are? They are as cold as icicles, with- 
out any generous human emotions or passions, and they 
christen their frigidity — virtue! Pooh! you and I don’t 
believe in that overmuch, do we?” 

“Not overmuch ,” said Burford, with some em- 
phasis. 

She laughed and looked at him. Then she pulled the 
tea rose deliberately to pieces, the petals falling through 
her white fingers about his feet. “When are you going 
to have your wedding? This season? I dare say she is 
anxious to get the compact signed and sealed.’’ 

“Nothing is settled yet,” he replied, hailing the 
arrival of a young Irish M.P. with relief. “Murphy, 
here is some one you know.” 

“What is it — pigs?” she said, suddenly, extending her 
hand with a gracious smile to Murphy. “How do you 
do, Mr. Murphy, I heard you made a most impassioned 
speech in the House last night. Is it pigs — Burford?” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Her fortune — is it pigs? Because you can say the 
Doxology every morning when you eat your slice of 
bacon. It’s just as well to have a constant reminder of 
present benefits. Now, Mr. Murphy, tell me all 
about- ’ ’ 

Burford escaped with a smothered word that is not 
supposed to be used at wedding receptions or other polite 
functions. Resisting various pretty women who tried to 
engage his attention by their congratulations, he wormed 
his way to Verity’s side. 

“Verity, give me some balm. I have been stung.” 

“Stung? Why, you have no mosquitoes here?” 

“Yes, we have, London is full of mosquitoes — human 
254 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 


mosquitoes.” His jaws were clenched together, and his 
blue eyes were dark. 

“And what has a human mosquito been doing to 
you?” 

“Making me ashamed that I was ever friendly enough 
to give her the right to sting me. . . . Verity, I’ve 
been all sorts of a fool in my time. I’m just beginning 
to realize it. After that confession, are you still willing 
to marry me?” 

“Yes, if — ” She stopped and looked around the 
room with a quick comprehensive glance that took in the 
huge, chattering, indifferent crowd, that did not even 
pretend to be interested in the bride and bridegroom, 
save to inquire the amount of the bride’s fortune, and 
prophesy the early extinction of Charles under her rule. 
There were no stories to tell about Charles, for his past 
was singularly uninteresting, from the scandalmonger’s 
point of view. 

“If what?” said Burford, following the direction of 
her eyes. “1 shall be glad to get away from this, sha’n’t 
you?” 

“Well, it is very hot and — and a little overwhelming, 
isn’t it? One can’t give one’s face a rest. You have to 
go on smiling amiably all the time. That’s the ‘if,’ 
Burford. Would you mind very much? Because this is 
your world, and Evangeline told me that I must have 
it.” 

“I am rather mystified, dear. I think the buzzing of 
these voices or that mosquito has got in my head. What 
is it you must have and don’t want?” 

“This crowd. Must we have a big function like 
this? Oh! do say we needn’t.” 

She looked up at him pleadingly, and under the shad- 
ow of her large-brimmed hat her eyes were the color of 
amber. 

“My dear, do you think I want it? Was there ever 
an unhappy bridegroom that wanted a fashionable wed- 
ding? Good heavens! I should be only too overjoyed to 

255 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


know that I hadn’t got to go through this. Do you 
really mean that ” 

“Then let’s say we won’t have it,” smiled Verity. 
“I don’t want you to be an unhappy bridegroom, looking 
stiff and anxious, as Charles did. I want you to turn 
and smile at me quite happily as I come up the aisle, and 
I can smile back at you, and there will be nobody to 
stare at us and make notes on my dress. I shall have the 
prettiest dress I can get, because it’s for you, but I don’t 
want to have holes riddled in my back by all these eyes. 
I am sure a shotgun is nothing to it.” 

“Verity, you’re a jewel among women,” returned 
Burford. “I never expected, in my life, to find a woman 
who didn’t want a big wedding and all the showy etcet- 
eras. Let’s go off quietly and get married to-morrow 
morning.” 

His eyes were very ardent as they looked down into 
hers, and she flushed under their message. Her nostrils 
quivered a little as she felt the warm desire of the man 
invade her, but she answered, demurely. 

“It was only a question of place, not time. And — I 
thought love took no heed of time.” 

“Oh! doesn’t it! ”Tis the voice of the hustler, I 
heard him declare, I have slumbered too long’ — ‘Love, 
the hustler!’ Nice title for a novel, eh? No, darling, 
I’ve misspent too many years of my life in bachelorhood; 
do help me to retrieve the past!” 

“I guess* you’ve enjoyed your misspent years all the 
same,” returned Verity, with a shrewd nod of her head. 
“Misspent years are usually the most amusing from a 
man’s point of view, aren’t they? I believe it’s those 
years that women like Ada Patterson begrudge you men. 
They want equal rights to misspend them, too.” 

“Did you ever hear a little story about a small boy 
who played truant, and tried very hard to find some one 
to play with him? Miss Patterson would do well to pon- 
der over that little anecdote. But, seriously, Verity, 
can’t we be married before the season is over?” he 

256 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 


pleaded. Lady Margetson would have opened her eyes 
widely, could she have heard that most indifferent and 
careless of men pleading with “the little American girl.” 
Verity had not meant to be married so soon; like most 
girls, she would have liked to lengthen the wooing 
period, but she was carried away by his appeal. The 
ardent lover, if he is confident enough, can always carry 
everything before him, and that this much-sought-after 
bachelor should be impatient to call her wife was subtle 
flattery not to be resisted. The day’s ceremony had 
stirred her emotions and senses very strongly, and his 
virile and intensely masculine personality, as he stood 
there, his shoulder touching hers through the thin ninon 
of her sleeve, stirred something in her that leapt to 
answer the question in his eyes. For, with the happy 
confidence of untampered youth, with the divine joy 
of the love which casteth out fear, she believed in this 
man’s love for her. She did not make the mistake of 
thinking that every couple who were united in the bonds 
of matrimony were rapturously in love with one another; 
she knew that Evangeline did not profess to any affection 
for Charles, and she had drawn her own conclusions as to 
how Charles regarded the unblushing, composed bride. 
But, as she had listened to Charles’s toneless responses, 
which yet were firm with the cold steel of duty, she had 
been glad that her affianced was not as he was; that 
theirs would not be a marriage of convenience, of com- 
merce. She knew that she would bring her husband a 
fortune, but she had been brought up so simply that she 
still believed in love for its own sake. It never even 
occurred to her that Burford had been attracted by her 
money, and she was genuinely glad that her money would 
be of use to Burford in those repairs and alterations 
to Lyndhurst which she had gathered from Lady Finbor- 
ough were necessary. When she had talked so lightly of 
his “misspent” hours she was not altogether unaware 
what those very fine lines round his eyes might mean; 
she had heard hints and innuendoes regarding him which 
18 257 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


had fallen on neither deaf nor unheeding ears. She 
knew vaguely that he had lived what she termed loosely 
to herself “a man’s life;” but she did not read the writ- 
ing between those fine lines very closely; she did not 
speculate or analyze what the "misspent” hours had 
exactly held. Those hours seemed safely buried in the 
days before she had known him, and she was wise enough 
to ask no questions of him. To her, the dissipations in 
which a man might indulge were vague smudges which 
she turned from, not in disgust, but because she found 
many fairer things to contemplate. She had a thor- 
oughly healthy mind : there was not a touch of the curse 
of modern girlhood — neuroticism and morbidity. Phil- 
ippa had never tried to keep "advanced” novels from 
her, but, after reading one or two because they were the 
fashion, she decided that they did not interest her. She 
naturally gravitated in her reading to the cleanly and 
virile, the novel of sentiment and romance (she was keen 
to detect and reject mawkishness or sentimentality) and 
the real. Biographies she eagerly devoured, and her 
own little library at home contained quite a stock of vol- 
umes which treated of the lives of famous men who have 
made history. Philippa would often find her, her eyes 
glowing, her cheeks flushed, reading of the great pioneer 
work of the world, following breathlessly in the footsteps 
of those who have cleared a way through the world’s 
swamps and jungles for less great spirits to walk in. As 
a child, she had been an ardent hero-worshiper, her 
enthusiasms always quickly stirred, her sympathies 
easily enlisted. And, perhaps because her brain had 
been full of big things, because she had dreamed of the 
great men of yesterday and to-day, because she loved 
naturally all that was fine and noble, Verity had not 
dipped deeply beneath the surface of life; she was too 
young. It is only when the magic essence has ceased to 
run through our veins that we are composed enough to 
stand still and gravely gaze into the deep waters. 

Burford presently succeeded in exacting a promise 
258 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 


from her that she would marry him before the season was 
over, “if it is decent.’ ’ She gave it with a wonderful, 
golden veil of shyness in her eyes, and a deepening of 
the tender curves of her lips, which made him long 
to take her in his arms there and then; but that, as 
Verity said, would not be “dacint.” He had a curious 
feeling with her that he wanted to pick her up and tuck 
her under his arm and carry her off to his tent like 
an Early Briton. She was so small and so downy and so 
eminently lovable. Yet she could hold her head as high 
and as proudly as any woman in that huge gathering, 
though she was so trbs femme. She was no '‘new 
woman’’ with her claptrap of independence, her war-cry 
of liberty, equality, fraternity, and yet she had the real 
spirit of independence and liberty in her small, lithe 
frame; she could be a comrade to a man as well as his 
woman. In the days which had followed his avowal in 
the dusty Secret Chamber, she had been enchantingly 
girlish and tender, and a surprisingly good companion. 
The latter meant a great deal to a man like Burford 
Rees. In the month he had known her — and he had been 
with her constantly indoors and out — she had never once 
bored him, or ceased to interest and amuse him. Once, 
years ago, Burford had declared that if he ever married 
any woman it would be the one that never bored him. 
Verity touched a side of him that no woman had ever 
tried to touch before. She had no risque stories to tell 
him, but her keen sense of humor, and her individual 
manner of amplifying and relating her various experi- 
ences, often caused him to laugh so heartily that men 
and women watching them together held that she could 
not be so innocent as she looked, and that there must be 
“ginger” in her anecdotes. Very little escaped her ac- 
tive brain, and Burford found that he had hitherto 
missed many of those laughs and sighs which make life 
so rich and so full of variety. The choice, expensive, 
hothouse blooms he had known and grown rather weary 
of, but the simple, wayside flowers he had trampled 

259 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


underfoot without heedings. But Verity would not let 
him trample on them. She drew his attention to them; 
she began to teach him to take notice of these new botan- 
ical specimens. And because of all this, and because of 
the great love for her that had grown up within him, he 
was genuinely anxious to make her his wife. He knew 
now why men want women to bear their name before 
the world, why they want to slip on the little golden 
symbol which, once given, means as much to the giver as 
to the recipient. He was surprised how much he did 
want “the littlest thing/ ' as he persisted in calling her, 
although she poutingly protested that she wished to be 
regarded as a fine woman! 

He left her for a few minutes to find Philippa and 
Veronica, for Verity had assented to his wish that they 
should get away from the reception into the fresh air. 
‘Til change quickly,” she said, “and we'll go for a 
walk in the park. These hothouse flowers make one feel 
sort of stuffy, they seem even to scent your brain. I’m 
longing for the smell of the grass and the earth. Let's 
go up beside the Serpentine, where all the cute little 
children are sailing boats.” 

She sat waiting for him, almost hidden by a big 
palm, hardly listening to the conversation going on 
around her. And yet some words struck her ear, which 
she afterward remembered. 

“Well,” said a female voice, “I never feel so sorry 
for an American bride as I do for an English one. I be- 
lieve that's the secret of Miss Vicary's calm air as she 
went up to the altar. Americans don’t look upon mar- 
riage as a life sentence. They're miles ahead of us, 
when it comes to the marriage law. If you don't like 
the length of your husband’s tongue or the shortness 
of his temper, you can divorce him, and no mud sticks on 
either side.” She gave a sigh, which was most evi- 
dently one of regret. 

Another voice replied, a man’s, “You think we 
might take a lesson from the States, eh?” 

260 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 


‘ ‘Rather. Our divorce laws are the most rotten, ob- 
solete things in the world. We shall be the laughing- 
stock of Europe soon, with our 'till death do us part’ and 
all that twaddle. It makes a woman long to assist death 
to do a bit of legal parting. A divorce here is a 
wretched business, one or both of the parties is generally 
ruined for life, and all because a few smug, hypocritical 
parsons block the road of progress, and a few more 
selfish, petrified beasts support them. But the American 
woman can always get rid of a husband if she wants to. 
I said to Evangeline only the other day, ‘Well, if this 
experiment doesn’t succeed, you can go back home and 
take one of your own countrymen. ’ America is a blessed 
country for women. I wish I’d been born under the 
Spread Eagle. He’s a nice, understanding sort of bird. 
He wasn’t hatched in the Garden of Eden, and he hasn’t 
had his wings clipped.” 

“Lots of our men marrying Americans, aren’t 
there?” continued the masculine voice, which seemed a 
little startled. 

‘‘Yes, and there’ll be more. None of our girls have 
got money. We shall have all our big country houses 
ruled over by American chatelaines soon. Another one 
going — Lyndhurst. Burford Rees is settling down at 
last with a nice little pile of dollars.” 

* “Some of the American girls are such beauties. 
Rather admire ’em myself, with their long necks and 
svelte figures, only they talk too much. And they ’re so 
jumpy and restless. That Beatrice Miller is like a 
young willow tree, but, of course, she hasn’t got any 
money. Otherwise, Captain Falkner is a bit gone. Is 
Miss Marlowe beautiful?” 

“Oh, rio ! She’s not plain, and she’s not beautiful. 
But she’s got a something which is rather arresting. 
Can’t put a name to it. She is very attractive to men, 
and she gets a lot of attention. And — she’s got the 
inevitable dollars. Lady Finborough’s jolly clever. 
She’s busy squinting at Heaven with one eye and keep- 

261 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


ing the other glued to the earth. Well, Burford will 
make a much more exciting husband than Overton, I lay. 
Still, she can always divorce him if he gets too exciting, 
so I daresay he’ll behave fairly well.” 

They moved away, to Verity’s relief, and soon after 
she heard Philippa say, “I am ready if you are, Verity. 
Burford tells me you are anxious to go.” 

In her elaborate dress, Philippa was what Verity 
would never be, a very beautiful creature. Needless to 
say, her gown was most extravagantly expensive; but 
handsome, rich apparel suited her. With her was 
Veronica, almost as tall, but extremely slight, and, in 
spite of her thirty-two years, almost virginal in appear- 
ance. She was the fragile type of American woman who 
looks as if a rough wind would blow her away, and her 
face had the charm of some delicate wild flower. The 
eyes, soft and darkly gray, were those of a dreamer, and 
the forehead that rose above them was almost too high 
and broad. She was dressed in a soft, lacy confection 
that admirably expressed her personality, and was en- 
tirely different from Philippa’s more voyante toilet. Bur- 
ford looked at the three women as they stood together. 
They represented three entirely different types. 

“You look rather tired, honey,” said Veronica, with 
her soft Southern voice. 

“Do I? I always get tired quickly in hot rooms.” 
Then, as they walked away together, ‘ 'Are you going to 
have this sort of thing, Veronica?” 

“You mean this crush? Why, no. But then, George 
and I are nobodies.” 

“Well, I’m not going to have it, either,” declared 
Verity, looking at the tired, wilting crowd. 

“But you’re going to marry a somebody, Verity. 
This is one of the penalties of greatness. You and Sir 
Burford can’t just walk to a registrar’s office and say, 
‘Marry us’ ! ” 

“No, but we can be married very quietly, can’t we?” 
pleaded Verity, her face clouding. 

262 


ORANGE BLOSSOM 


* 'Scarcely, I should say.” 

But in spite of her determination not to be the victim 
of a fashionable wedding, backed up by Burford’s dis- 
taste for it, it would probably not have been of any avail, 
save for a tragic event which overshadowed the Finbor- 
ough family, and made a public wedding out of the 
question. 

Two days after the wedding of Evangeline, when she 
had only enjoyed her position as Viscountess Overton 
forty-eight hours, she exchanged that title for that of 
Lady Finborough. The genial, enthusiastic aviator who 
had borne that title was killed suddenly by the capsizing 
of his aeroplane, and became one of the first to figure in 
the long list of victims in the pioneer work of aviation. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


“LADY REES” 

The death of Lord Finborough made it imperative 
that if the wedding took place that year it must be a 
very quiet one. Burford was very much averse to any 
delay, and to Philippa, who had been rather perplexed by 
Verity’s plea for a simple wedding, this seemed a good 
way out of the difficulty. So the wedding was fixed to 
take place at the end of July, only a few of the nearest 
relatives on either side being present. 

Philippa, during the weeks before the wedding, while 
she was busy over the bride’s trousseau, merged herself 
entirely in Verity and her happiness. She placed herself 
and all her time at her daughter’s disposal. She took 
her over to Paris, and there purchased for her all the 
daintiest conceits in feminine attire; all the hundred and 
one little fripperies that go to make up the trousseau of 
the modern bride. Philippa had the most excellent taste, 
and Verity’s trousseau was one any girl might have 
envied. And Verity, who had forgotten her old indiffer- 
ence to clothes, since Burford was something of a con- 
noisseur in dress, showed all the ordinary girl’s delight 
in it. 

Only when Verity was asleep, tired out with shopping 
and excitement, did Philippa allow herself to remember 
that she had deliberately closed the gates of Eden in her 
own face. Underneath the surface she was desperately 
restless and unhappy. Why had she not taken Holt 
Vicary seriously? Why had she not let herself respond 
to his passion when he had made love to her? For though 

264 


“LADY REES’ ’ 


she saw him very frequently, his manner had completely 
changed. It was uniformly friendly and jolly, but never 
a word of love fell from his lips. The humble devoted 
wooer had disappeared, and been replaced by un bon 
camarade , and women are not interested in masculine 
camarades. Philippa expected every day to hear of his 
engagement to Mrs. Townsend, but he did not give her 
his confidence on the subject. Because it was too late, 
she was beginning to learn how reliable Holt Vicary 
could be. In George Bradley’s absence — he was still de- 
tained in New York — there were many things that 
demanded a man’s advice and attention, and Holt Vicary 
naturally stepped into Bradley’s shoes. At first, Philippa 
had hesitated to claim his services, but he had offered 
himself so easily and spontaneously that both women 
insensibly began to lean on him. For Burford was by no 
stretch of imagination a practical person: he could order 
a perfect dinner at the Carlton, or select the smartest 
thing in motor cars, but there his talents ended. On the 
steamer, Holt Vicary had seemed almost a boy to Phil- 
ippa, for he had that deceptive but agreeable appearance 
of youth which often masks the able man of affairs. 
And his deference and suppliant attitude toward her had 
made him seem even younger, for a woman is always 
inclined to respect the man who “demands.” But now 
that he had thrown off that attitude, and taken up the 
role of adviser and friend, Philippa realized that she had 
rejected the ripe fruit the gods had offered her. She had 
thought he was ready to flirt with any pretty girl, be- 
cause he had been attracted to Verity, but she learned 
from Evangeline that Holt had never had any fancy for 
“the girls,” and that the most beautiful debutantes had 
left him cold. Insensibly, in her relations with him, her 
own manner began to change. She never treated him 
lightly now; her old imperiousness and indifference had 
softened into something more womanly and natural. In 
fact, there were times when she recalled herself with a 
jerk, and told herself indignantly that she was wooing 

265 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


him; she, an American woman, was making herself a 
doormat for his feet. 

And Verity? Verity’s happiness was a joyous thing 
to behold; the days had too few hours for all she wanted 
to do and be. Her laugh in those days was so infec- 
tious that people turned round and smiled as it reached 
their ears; her eyes were so big and bright with dreams, 
her lips were so full of bewitching curves, that she was 
almost beautiful. The world to her was an enchanted 
garden with the flowers at her feet begging to be 
plucked, and, with the wonderful egotism of extreme 
youth, it seemed to her that the sun shone, the birds 
sang, the grass was green for her and Burford alone. 
And Burford’s behavior was beyond reproach. He 
danced attendance on the small feet, which touched the 
earth so lightly, as assiduously as even a lovesick boy 
could have done. Her varying moods, her emotions, her 
enthusiasms, her quick sympathies stirred his somewhat 
selfish, lethargic self into a briskness that his friends 
regarded with astonishment. 

“He’s really in love with her,” said his sister, in 
unfeigned surprise. “I shouldn’t have thought, if Venus 
herself had proposed to marry him, that he could have 
been so interested in his wedding.” 

“A Venus would be so very dull to marry, don’t you 
think?” said Ira Townsend. They were at a large char- 
ity bazaar, to which, as it was “charity,” Lady Finbor- 
ough felt herself entitled to go. She found retirement 
dull. “She would be so painfully beautiful, too, even 
at the breakfast table. I am sure she was one of those 
creatures who never have their plain days, and people 
who are always beautiful are so tiresome. Now, some- 
times when I meet Verity I say, ‘My dear, you are really 
lovely in a miniature way!’ and then the next time I 
think, ‘Why, it’s just nothing at all but a little bright- 
eyed child.’ ” 

Lady Finborough, who was in widow’s weeds, a big 
ivory cross dangling on her capacious bosom, nodded 

266 


“LADY REES” 


agreement. “I suppose she is what is called a person of 
temperament. I’m not one myself. To me she is rather 
perplexing. I’m not particularly slow, but she sees the 
full stop before I’ve got to the first comma. Sometimes 
she makes me feel so old that I think it would be only 
decent of me to lay my bones beside poor Mortimer’s 
shattered ones, though I feel certain he doesn’t want me. 
It’s funny, isn’t it, to think that he may be flying about 
in Heaven, without any aeroplane to come to grief in? 
I’m sure he’ll be worrying all the time to find out how 
it’s done. He always hated the supernatural, and so im- 
plicitly believed in machinery.” 

“You think he has gone to Heaven?” said Mrs. 
Townsend, with a twinkle. “I thought you once lamented 
to me that he had no religion save that of cog-wheels.” 

“That’s true, but he had no vices and no conversa- 
tion, and I’m. sure he wouldn’t be wanted in the other 
place.” 

Mrs. Townsend firmly resisted the wiles of a famous 
duchess, once a well-known beauty, to sell her an atro- 
cious sofa-cushion. “No, one always imagines that the 
inhabitants of Hades are smart conversationalists, and 
that the angels converse in monosyllables when they are 
not singing. Where are the happy pair going for the 
honeymoon?” 

“My dear, it’s really scandalous. They’re going 
straight to Lyndhurst, if you ever heard of such a thing. 
She had a fancy to spend the honeymoon there, and he 
jumped at it. I begged them to go abroad, or borrow 
some one else’s place, or go yachting, or anything re- 
spectable and conventional, but no — they are going down 
to Lyndhurst immediately after the ceremony.” 

Ira laughed, and bought a photograph frame from a 
peer’s daughter, who looked exactly like a chorus girl 
with her enameled face and flamboyant dress. “It’s 
rather quaint, I think. And why not? Why borrow 
some one else’s place, that you don’t like as well as your 
own?” 


267 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


‘‘Yes, but it’s never done. Although I will say that 
Lyndhurst in July and August is too lovely for words. 
Burford’s hardly ever seen it in those months since he 
was a child. The roses really are gorgeous. You should 
see the Nun’s Garden! It’s really like a scene on the 
stage.” 

“Well, it’s to be hoped the roses won’t have any 
thorns,” laughed Mrs. Townsend, passing on. 

Both the bride and bridegroom were deluged with 
presents, many of them extremely valuable. Some one 
said that Verity was the only girl in London society that 
season who had absolutely no enemies, and in his way 
Burford was distinctly popular. There were the usual 
cynical remarks anent the money-bags of the bride and 
the depleted exchequer of the bridegroom, but they were 
not made ill-naturedly, or with any personal animus. 
Verity’s youth and shining happiness disarmed criticism. 
She slid into the good graces of every one, even the most 
exclusive of sour old dowagers, and the promise of their 
future was as rosy as the Crimson Ramblers on the walls 
of the Nun’s Garden. 

The day of the wedding dawned at last, and a small, 
almost fairylike bride, who had not slept a wink all 
night with excitement and emotion, was arrayed for the 
ceremony. Her mobile face, with its tender mouth, ex- 
pressed a thousand feelings in turn that morning, and 
the color came and went in her cheeks most bewilder- 
ingly. Her eyes were brilliant with excitement, and 
glowed with molten gold under her shining, abundant 
hair. Her wedding dress was of some clinging diaphanous 
material that exactly suited her girlish form. Philippa 
had made no attempt to dress her richly, or to make 
her appear dignified. She was one of the most simply 
attired brides of the season, but none of those who were 
present will ever forget the look on her face as she came 
up the aisle to take her place by the side of the bride- 
groom. 

Some one likened her to a Dresden shepherdess in a 
268 


'‘LADY REES’ ’ 


wedding-dress, but, though in figure she resembled those 
dainty persons, the likeness ended there. The life and 
the intense feeling in the face were quite unlike the 
gentle, amiable air of vacuity on the faces of those doll- 
like persons. The flame of her love for the man of her 
choice burned so visibly that even Evangeline began to 
wonder a little uncomfortably if her own placid, com- 
mon-sense view of life did not leave something to be 
desired. She was very ably handling the reins of the 
Finborough menage , but, though she had every reason to 
congratulate herself on her undoubted ability and her 
high position, her life, as she saw Verity’s eyes, seemed 
rather trivial and commonplace. If she had ever had any 
wings she had long ago deliberately clipped them, and 
hung upon them her dollars as ballast; but Verity, it 
seemed, not only was scaling the heights of Olympus, 
but scaling them in company with a well-known baronet. 
Still, as Evangeline said comfortably to herself, a baro- 
net is not a peer, and Lyndhurst, beautiful as it was in 
its way, was nothing compared with the glories of Fin- 
borough Castle. So, like a Grenadier Guard, she stood 
very erect in her most expensive frock, and her moment- 
ary doubts vanished. 

There were only twelve people who went back with 
the happy pair to breakfast at the hotel, and whether 
she ate anything at all, whether it was chopped hay or 
quails in aspic, Verity had not the faintest idea. When 
some one addressed her as Lady Rees, it seemed to her 
that the earth stood still for a moment while she got her 
breath. 

“Well,” said Holt to Philippa, who, rather pale, was 
smiling at Verity’s happiness, “you’ve brought it off 
safely after all. You have fulfilled the conditions of the 
old man’s will. Verity is the wife of an Englishman, 
and the mistress of a large fortune.” 

“Yes, it has all turned out wonderfully, hasn’t it? 
So wonderfully and so easily that I am sometimes afraid. 
I expected to go through Europe warding off ineligibles 

269 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


and suffering all sorts of trials, but the thing has ac- 
complished itself so naturally that I sometimes wonder 
if ” 

She stopped as Verity’s laugh rang out. 

"‘You wonder what?” said Holt, pleasantly, but with- 
out any particular tenderness in his voice. 

“If — if it will turn out as well as it promises. Oh! 
I am not really afraid, of course, only one gets distrust- 
ful when — when one seems to be peeping through the 
open gates into Paradise. One expects to hear them 
clang to sharply.” 

“You are tired,” said Holt, abruptly. “When is 
George coming back?” 

“Not yet, and he wants me to wait here for him. 
But I am going to Marienbad next month with Lady Fin- 
borough. When are you returning?” 

“Not just yet. I have some business that will keep 
me here a while longer. Maybe I’ll go back in the 
fall.” 

Philippa’s heart sank. She had heard Ira Townsend 
mention that she might be going to America in the 
autumn. That probably meant they were going together. 
She bit her lip, and then forced a smile. Holt Vicary 
was looking at her with an enigmatical expression that 
puzzled her. 

“We might go back on the same boat,” he said. “I 
hear that George and Veronica mean to wander over the 
Continent for a few months when they are married. 
You can’t go back alone.” 

“We might make up a party,” said Philippa, with 
an assumption of carelessness. “I understand that Mrs. 
Townsend is going to pay a visit,” she stopped and cor- 
rected herself, “is coming to New York in the fall.” 

“Oh! has she told you? I thought it was a secret. 
Yes, I’ve at last persuaded her that we have something 
worth showing her. I’ve told her that all self-respect- 
ing Englishwomen should pay a visit to our country, if 
only to be able afterward to pat themselves and their 

270 


‘‘LADY REES” 


little island on the back and thank God they are not as 
we are — what?” 4 

‘‘Well, there are worse places than New York,” said 
Philippa, suddenly feeling that she would like a glimpse 
of its familiar sky-scrapers and narrow, noisy Broadway 
once again. 

“Sure,” said Holt, ‘‘that’s what I’ve been telling 
Mrs. Townsend. I’ve been trying to persuade her she’d 
like to live there. Won’t you tell her, too? She’s got 
an impression that New York is a sort of huge elevator, 
and that we’re being continually either shot up at a 
breakneck pace or dumped down violently somewhere.” 
He laughed. ‘‘I’ve heard the queerest things about 
America since I’ve been here, and not from uneducated 
people only. I feel as if I should like to write a book, 
‘What America is and is not: a guide to intelligent con- 
versation with natives of the country, a few of whom do 
not speak through their noses or wear freak clothes.’ ” 

Philippa smiled. ‘‘I know; it’s funny, isn’t it?” 

‘‘We will look forward to a pleasant trip back 
together. I’m afraid I was a very dull companion com- 
ing out. But when a man’s in love for the first time it 
sort of paralyzes him, and all his usual parlor tricks and 
his sense of humor get downed. It’s like having the 
grip. You can’t think of anything else but your own 
symptoms, and how much you’re suffering. But I’ll try 
and have some variations this time.” 

‘‘I’m glad your attack is cured,” said Philippa, hold- 
ing her head very high. 

‘‘Your indifference has acted like quinine upon me. 
You were cruel to be kind. Some women might have 
coquetted and kept me dangling on, a prey to all sorts of 
agony, but you are above such pettiness. Your ‘no’ was 
so decided that I couldn’t even cherish as much hope as 
would lie on a pin-point. You were really very patient 
with me, and I must have been no end tiresome.” 

She looked at him sharply. Were his keen eyes peni- 
tent or quizzical, or what? There was something lurk- 

271 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


in g in their depths like a little imp of mischief, but 
what it meant she could not determine. His face gave 
her no clue. It was quite devoid of expression, save that 
of amiable friendliness. 

“I imagine,’ ’ continued Holt, thoughtfully, “that 
when a man hops round you with attentions you don’t 
desire, and whose affection you don’t reciprocate, he 
must seem like a sort of maddening insect. His words 
of love must sound like the buzz of a bumble-bee, and a 
woman must long to annihilate him. But I daresay the 
insect doesn’t know how unpleasant he is. I am sure I 
never realized how tiresome I made myself.” 

But the toast to the bride and bridegroom was being 
drunk, and Philippa lifted her glass to the girl whose 
radiant eyes turned affectionately to hers. After that, 
the breakfast soon came to an end, and Verity was 
whisked off that she might don her going-away attire. 
The motor was in waiting to run them down to Lynd- 
hurst. 

As Verity stood patiently in her room while the maid 
unfastened the bridal gown, she saw a letter addressed 
to Miss Verity Marlowe upon the dressing-table among 
the silver. She picked it up, and inquired when it had 
arrived. 

“There was a mistake about it,” said the maid, 
“and it was delivered at the wrong room. It has only 
just been sent in. They are very careless with the 
letters. ’ ’ 

“I daresay it’s nothing.” She had received floods of 
letters. 

She picked it up and tore it open. For some time 
she could not take in its meaning, but she saw at once 
that it was an anonymous letter. She had always imag- 
ined that anonymous letters were inevitably badly written 
and ill-spelled — in novels they had always been so — but 
this was written in a good, fair hand, and there were 
no marks of illiteracy about the epistle. It ran as fol- 
lows: 


272 


“LADY REES’ ’ 


“Dear Madam : 

“My only excuse for interfering in your affairs— a quite 
unpardonable thing to do, I know — is that I saw a photograph 
of you in an illustrated paper recently, and your obvious youth- 
fulness and sweetness have urged me to warn you of what is 
about to happen, should you persist in marrying Sir Burford 
Rees. I cannot think that the real character of the man is 
known to you, or that you have any inkling of the secret he is 
hiding. Sir Burford is about to be a co-respondent in a partic- 
ularly sordid divorce case, in which a well-known actress is 
involved — he is not the only co-respondent in the case — and if 
the citation has not yet been served upon him, it will be so in 
the course of the next few hours. 

“If you are aware of the case which is pending, and are 
marrying him with your eyes open, you will, of course, regard 
this warning as a mere impertinence ; but if not, I trust I may 
yet be in time to avert your marriage to one whose name is a 
by-word in London as an ill friend to women and an unscrupu- 
lous roue. He has long been seeking an heiress who will pay 
his debts. A marriage averted at the eleventh hour is better 
than figuring in our most unsavory Divorce Court, for I need 
not tell you that divorce is very different in this country from 
what it is in yours. Mud sticks, and the revelations in this 
particular suit will certainly insure a cause celebre, and much 
humiliation and disgrace to his wife, should he have one. Ask 
him to explain his ‘friendship’ with Renee d’Almaine. 

“(Signed) A Well Wisher." 

Presently Verity heard the maid saying as she knelt 
behind her, unfastening the dress, “Was it very impor- 
tant, my lady?” 

My lady! Yes, she was Lady Rees now, and this let- 
ter said— She was still in her bridal finery, and her 
bridegroom was waiting for her. For a moment a wild 
panic invaded her, and her heart beat hard against her 
bosom. It was the first time that anything so sinister 
and unpleasant as an anonymous letter had ever touched 
the fringe of her life. An anonymous letter in itself be- 
longed, in her mind, to the region of imaginative fiction, 
wild melodramas, and things that might happen, but 
never did. But that she, Verity Marlowe— no, Verity 
Rees — should receive one, that it should bear so terrible 
a warning— was it possible? It made the sunlight seem 
19 273 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


unreal, as though it had turned to limelight. For a mo- 
ment she felt as if she were standing on the edge of a 
precipice, and everything below were veiled in fog. 

Then she heard Philippa’s voice in the adjoining 
room, and with the swift instinct of loyalty that comes 
even with the first hour of married life, she tucked away 
the letter among the laces and dainty ribbons of her 
camisole. Her mother must not know; she must not see 
the letter. 

For the next quarter of an hour she was so busy 
changing and giving instructions, opening telegrams of 
congratulation, and talking to Philippa, that she had no 
time to consider what lay among the laces on her bosom. 

“I am so glad to see you so happy, darling,” said 
Philippa, giving her one of her rather rare caresses, for 
Philippa was not a demonstrative woman. “It would 
make me so miserable if I thought — ” She hesitated. 
They were alone together. 

“What, mother? Say it.” 

“You had learnt to care for Burford before you knew 
about the will, hadn’t you? It didn’t make any differ- 
ence, did it? Sometimes I feel that I was wrong, and 
that you ought to have known earlier, and that my desire 
that you should fulfil the terms of the will must in some 
way, unconscious to myself, have influenced you. I 
can’t explain what I mean, but people can influence 
others, even at a distance, can’t they? And living side 
by side with you, hoping always that — Did I take an 
unfair advantage over you? I feel I have been very 
selfish and egotistical, nursing my old grievances and 
brooding over my wrongs. Oh, Verity, if you ever 
showed any signs of not being quite happy, of regret- 
ting, I ” 

She choked and stopped short. Verity drew the face 
down to her own small, flushed one. She did not 
remember ever having seen her mother so moved before. 
“Dear, I am going to be very, very happy. I wish I 
were not leaving you alone, but George will be back very 

274 


“LADY REES” 


soon. And you are going to Marienbad with Lady Fin- 
borough, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, I shall be all right,” returned Philippa, regain- 
ing a little of her self-control. “Don’t worry for an in- 
stant about me. I am thinking only of you to-day, 
child.” 

In the look that Philippa gave her, Verity read her 
anxiety and love; and remembering that her mother’s 
married life with her father had not been a happy one, 
she thought this accounted for her mother’s solicitude. 
A mother must remember her own wedding-day at the 
marriage of her only child. Then another possible 
reason struck her, and she turned with a changed face. 

“Mother, there is — is no reason why I should not be 
happy, is there?” Her hand touched the letter on her 
breast. 

Philippa, in her turn, looked at her in surprise. There 
was a note in her voice she had never heard before. 

“Any reason? What do you mean?” Verity turned 
away and began to pin on her hat with its drooping, 
tawny plumes. 

“Nothing,” said Verity, hastily. “Is this on at the 
right angle? You always know. I only mean — it isn’t 
like marrying a man of bad character and thinking you 
are going to reform him, or anything like that, is it?” 

Philippa’s serious mood dissipated itself in a peal of 
laughter, as Verity thrust in the last topaz-headed hat- 
pin. Verity began to laugh, too. 

“Well, I’ve never heard that Burford is a desperate 
person. I should say he is much too lazy to be a Blue- 
beard or a terror to the police. What do you mean, 
dear?” 

“Nothing, I was only joking. You like my— my hus- 
band, don’t you?” 

“Immensely,” said Philippa, promptly. “If he had 
done me the honor of falling in love with me I might 
even have succumbed myself! I should trust Burford 
Rees always to play the straight game, and that’s saying 

275 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


a good deal for a man. And, my dear, you have cap- 
tured a very good parti most legitimately, for Burford is 
very much in love with you.” She gave a little uncon- 
scious sigh. It is hard to watch another’s cup brimming 
over when your own is empty. 

Just then there was a knock on the door. “May I 
come in?” It was Burford’s voice. 

For a moment, Verity had the impulse of the maiden 
to call out an indignant “No,” to a man entering her 
bedchamber. Then she remembered that, though he 
was a strange man a few hours ago, he was now her hus- 
band. So, with a delicious blush, she called out, “Yes, 
come.” 

“You were so long that I’ve come to carry you off.” 

He strode into the room and came up to her as she 
stood in front of the mirror. 

“Making yourself beautiful for your lord and mas- 
ter?” 

“You are not my lord and master,” returned Verity. 
“No American woman owns a lord and master.” 

“Yes, but you’re only half an American, and I am 
now going to carry you off to my feudal castle. Maiden, 
you are in my power, as the villain says in the play.” 

He caught her round her slender waist. “Beware, 
madam, how you play with me. I could snap you in 
two, you — littlest thing, in spite of your brave array. 
Better pretend I am your lord and master. Besides, you 
did promise to obey me a little while ago, didn’t she, 
Mrs. Marlowe? Oh, she has gone! Fancy, a girl with 
an impertinent nose like yours pretending to be inde- 
pendent!” 

Verity laughed and allowed him to kiss the member 
in question. She had forgotten the unpleasant missive: 
she only remembered that she loved this big, strong man 
whom she called husband. In the conventional bride- 
groom’s attire he looked what few men do, distinguished 
and thoroughly at his ease; but then, Burford Rees had 
never been seen to look otherwise. 

276 


“LADY REES” 


“I’ve been married two hours and a half,” she 
announced, glancing at the clock. 

“Isn’t it curious? So have I!” 

“Did you ever think of marrying any one else, Bur- 
ford?” asked his wife, suddenly. 

“Do you really want me to answer that question?” 
said Burford, lazily, playing with a bottle of smelling 
salts. 

“Yes, I really want you to answer. . . . Mind those 
salts, they are awfully strong. . . . Did you ever want 
to marry another woman?” 

“Wait a minute. I want to sneeze. Heavens! I 
should think these salts are what you would call a 
corpse-reviver in America. . . . No, it’s a drink? Oh! 
let me see. Yes, I wanted to marry a woman very badly 
once. I was tremendously in love with her. I adored 
the ground she walked on.” 

“Oh!” 

“And she trod on fairly large spaces, for she was 
what you would call a fine woman, if you felt polite 
toward her; if you didn’t, you called her a fat lump. 
Yes, Verity, and she returned my affection. Many a 
time did she take me in her arms and implant a kiss 
upon my brow. But the family wouldn’t hear of it. 
Said I was too young.” 

“Were you very young?” 

“Well, I was under age — seven and a half to be 
exact, and Eliza Ann was a blooming maiden of forty odd 
summers, with a hand — I can feel it now!” 

‘‘Burford, you ridiculous thing! No, you mustn’t 
disarrange my hat, even if I am your wife. ... No, 
but seriously, you must have been in love with some one 
before you met me. You wouldn’t be a man if you 
hadn’t!” 

“Hark to the experienced matron! If you say much 
more I shall delve into your past! Well, I did fancy my- 
self in love with a woman some ten — twelve years ago; I 
was jolly well snubbed, and — since then I have loved no 

277 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


other. I can honestly say, sweetheart, that I’ve never 
even imagined myself in love, since that episode, till I 
met you. ,, 

He wondered at the change in her face as she uncom- 
plainingly allowed him completely to spoil the nice angle 
at which the Parisian creation was perched upon her 
head. For he had told her what she wanted to know, 
without directly asking him. The letter on her bosom 
was a lie, a sneaking bit of mischief-making. As soon 
as she could she would burn it, as it deserved. She 
remembered having heard some one say that the writers 
of anonymous letters were always cowards. What a 
mean worm she had been even to have been disturbed for 
a single second by its malignant warning. Somebody 
out of spite had tried to spoil her wedding-day, had 
tried to poison her love for her husband. 

She clung to him in a passion of love and repentance, 
and when a few minutes later they entered the waiting 
motor car with its smiling chauffeur, one of the attend- 
ants at the hotel said, ‘‘That’s the happiest thing in 
brides I’ve seen for a longtime.” 

The car whizzed her forward into a new life. 


PART THREE 


THE THORN 



CHAPTER XXIV 


“welcome home” 

Verity would not have been the emotional, very hu- 
man creature that she was, if she had not felt a little 
thrill of pride and elation as the lodge gates were thrown 
open, and the car spun up the fine old avenue of lime 
trees that constituted the approach to the house. The 
afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, making a 
dancing pattern on the smooth gravel of the drive, and 
playing upon the highly polished brass of the motor with 
quivering gleams of light. The grass on either side 
stretched away like velvet, cool and refreshing to the 
eye, eloquent of the rich soil and centuries of care and 
culture. There was a drowsy sweetness and warmth 
pervading Lyndhurst, that seemed to enfold the return- 
ing couple; the air was full of perfume and color, as 
though the scent of the roses permeated the whole place. 

And, standing high on its terraces, in the red glow of 
the sun, stood her husband’s ancestral home — and now 
hers. As they wound up the avenue, they had a glimpse 
of the open fertile country-side, smiling and very peace- 
ful. Verity slipped her hand impulsively into Burford’s, 
as they drew nearer to the fine old pile, and though he 
said nothing, his own closed firmly upon it. “Not a bad 
old place,” he would have said slightingly to a stranger; 
but always when he came in sight of it after an absence 
something .seemed to tug at his heart-strings. Deep 
down, never to be mentioned, he was intensely grateful 
to his bride that she had taken his home so warmly to her 
heart. Somehow it seemed to him that Lyndhurst had 

281 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


been waiting for her for a long time, and as he looked at 
his home he realized how difficult it would have been, 
even for the sake of saving it, to have brought home a 
woman who could not have shared — and silently — his 
pride in it. He did not say the traditional “welcome 
home,” as he helped her out of the car, but his eyes, 
very blue with happiness and good health, said it for 
him. She stepped into the hall, where the servants were 
gathered in respectful rows, waiting to welcome them. 
Above their controlled faces, the pictured dead and gone 
Reeses on the walls looked down at the new chatelaine 
who had come across the Atlantic, prompted by the will 
of a cross-grained old man. 

Verity smiled upon the servants and said a few grace- 
ful words in reply to a carefully rehearsed little speech 
from the steward of the estate, who was also present. 
Then they all melted away, and she and Burford were 
alone in the big hall. 

She drew a deep breath and gazed around her. She 
looked at the fluttering, tattered pennons that hung from 
the gallery; she looked at the precious tapestry that 
adorned the walls, at the shabby bits of armor nailed on 
the paneling, and up at the fine old staircase, as if it 
were new to her. 

“Well?” said Burford, smiling. He liked her deep 
silences. 

There was a little reminiscent smile round the corners 
of her mouth. “Burford, do you know as I came up the 
avenue some old lines that I used to repeat as a child 
were ringing in my head. You know that old sing-song 
thing: 

‘The stately homes of England, 

How beautiful they stand * 

I used to picture them, but I never got so far as to 
imagine that one of those homes would be my home. 
Oh! what are those flowers?” 

She went over to where two large floral tributes 
283 


“WELCOME HOME” 


reposed on a table. One was very elaborate and com- 
posed of choice white roses, almost waxen in their 
perfect shape and beauty, arranged in a gold basket. 
This had been sent in by the head gardener. Side by 
side was a gigantic bunch of homely garden flowers, of 
every kind and color, from Canterbury bells and heavy- 
headed phlox, to frail jessamine and sturdy mignonette. 

“What a delicious bit of country,” exclaimed Verity, 
burying her face in it. There was a card attached, with 
some very spidery, shaky handwriting upon it. Verity 
managed at last to decipher the words, “Welcome Home 
to Lady Burford Rees from her very respectful servant, 
Mary.” Then, underneath, in an even more shaky hand, 
“God bless you both.” 

“By Jove!” said Burford, smiling, “it’s from old 
Mary Methusaleh — out of her garden. I bet she picked 
’em herself.” 

“They’re just sweet. I shall go and thank her my- 
self.” 

“Want to make a few more abject slaves, do you? 
Yes?” 

The butler was respectfully waiting to catch his eye. 
He drew Burford a little on one side. 

“There is some one waiting to see you in the library, 
sir. I told him it was not a fitting time for him to see 
you, but he says his business is very important. He has 
been waiting for you all the afternoon. 

Burford considered a moment. “Perhaps it s some 
belated wedding present to be delivered by hand. Is he 
that sort of person?” 

“Not quite, I think, sir.” 

‘Oh! well, I’ll go and see what it is.” 

Verity, surrounded by the flowers, had caught one or 
two words. “Another wedding present, Burford, did 
you say? Oh! I must come, too.” She stopped to de- 
tach a rose from the basket and fasten it in her dress, 
then, picking up the whole bunch in her hand, she went 
across the hall to the study. 

283 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


The door was open, and as she came to the threshold 
she heard her newly made husband give vent to a furious 
curse that made her stop still with sudden apprehension. 
A small man was backing out of the doorway rather 
fearfully, his eyes fixed on Burford, who was scanning a 
blue paper in his hand. It struck Verity that the 
retreating man would have been grinning evilly, but for 
his doubts as to the safety of his unathletic person. In 
backing he pushed the thunderstruck girl to one side, 
without noticing that he did so. Neither man saw her. 

‘ ‘ . . . only my orders . . . must serve the papers on 
you,” he was murmuring thickly, ”... very incon- 
venient on your wedding-day to be made co-respondent in 
a divorce case. ...” 

But Burford had crumpled up the blue paper in his 
strong hands with such violence that the man made 
another hasty step backward. He did not like the look 
of those hands. 

Verity had never imagined that Burford could be so 
transformed with passion. She was facing a stranger. 
The veins stood out like cords on his fair forehead, and 
his face was almost vivid with anger. The whites of his 
eyes seemed suffused, and the pupils flashed like steel. 
He made a threatening movement toward the man, who 
put up his hands as though expecting a blow. 

“It’s no good assaulting me . . . can’t be done . . . 
only acting under orders for my firm. . . .” 

“Get out, you dirty swine,” thundered Burford, 
making for him. The man waited for nothing more. 
He ignominiously bolted, and, in the silence that ensued, 
they heard him scurrying across the parquet floor of the 
hall like a frightened rabbit. By his rush across the 
room for the solicitor’s clerk Burford had come face to 
face with Verity. For several seconds he stared at her 
uncomprehendingly, breathing heavily like a man who 
has been running. Like all big men, violent anger 
affected him physically. The perspiration stood in little 
shining beads upon his forehead. 

284 


“WELCOME HOME” 


“Who is it? Oh! you, Verity — I ” 

He turned away to recover himself, for he had let 
himself get out of hand. When he turned round again, 
trying to summon his usual careless smile, he, for the 
first time, noticed her face. For a moment he had seen 
red, and all the world, including his bride, had been 
blotted out. He did not often give way to paroxysms of 
passion. Once, as a young man, he had nearly killed a 
groom who had disobeyed him. Since then, he had 
always left himself a small margin. 

He tried to pull himself together; Verity was waiting 
to speak to him — he mustn’t frighten her — why had it 
happened to-day, of all days? 

“Verity, darling, I beg your pardon. I — I lost my 

temper — the man annoyed me ” 

He came up to her a little unsteadily, for his sudden 
anger had been almost intoxicating, and the room with 
its book-lined walls was still moving up and down like 
the deck of a vessel. He put out his hand to touch her 
shoulder, when her silent, wide-eyed horror gave way. 
A sharp, agonized exclamation broke from her lips, and, 
like the man, she stepped back from him. 

“Verity, I did frighten you. My darling, I ” 

“Don’t touch me!” she said, and her voice was 
harsh and unmusical, like some instrument out of tune. 
“Don’t come near me!” 

He rested his hand on the table for support, and their 
eyes met squarely. Was this the laughing, shyly radiant 
Verity of a few minutes ago? was this the girl he had 
married? Who was this woman facing him with horror 
and scorn in her eyes? — and what different eyes! They 
reminded him of a forest fire that has been quenched by 
a thunderstorm. He was about to speak when her eyes 
dropped to old Mary’s bridal posy, still in her hand. 

Then she began to laugh, and the sound was so hor- 
rible that he wanted to put his hands over his ears. 
Then, just as suddenly as it had commenced, it abruptly 
ceased. 


285 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

She dashed the sweet smelling blooms to the floor 
with a fierce, resentful gesture he had never dreamed she 
could use, and, before he could stop her, she had turned 
and rushed out of the room. The bridal bouquet got be- 
tween his feet and delayed him. 

'‘Verity . . . Verity . . . come back!” 

But, like a hunted wild thing, incredibly nimble of 
foot in spite of her long frock, she was scaling the stair- 
case. He got to the foot of the stairs when he heard a 
door overhead slam violently. 

He hesitated. Then he heard the even voice of one 
of the servants behind him. 

“Did you call, sir?” 

He was so long in replying that the man thought he 
could not have heard. 

“Do you want anything, sir?” 

“No. . . . Go.” 

The man departed, rather puzzled, for Burford was 
not wont to be curt with the servants, except when they 
were presumptuous. He returned to the servants' quar- 
ters agog with curiosity. “Can’t be a lover’s quarrel so 
early,” he muttered to himself, going down the passage. 
“Wonder if it had anything to do with that slimy little 
cove in the library. . . . Never could stand that kind. 

. . . My! he did look rummy. ...” 

Burford went slowly back to the library and picked 
up the crumpled blue paper. He must have time to 
recover, and think what had happened. He read it 
through again. Yes, there was no mistake. He, Bur- 
ford Rees, was cited as co-respondent in a petition for 
divorce brought by Richard Pollock against his wife, 
Elizabeth Pollock, better known as Renee d’Almaine, 
actress. . . . 

With that deliberate calm that comes after a violent 
storm, he carefully locked it up in his desk. This, at 
least, was necessary. 

Then he sat down before his desk, and for the first 
time in his life he tried to see into some one else’s mind 

286 


“WELCOME HOME” 


and thoughts. Why had Verity rushed away from him 
so violently? She couldn't have heard anything that she 
would have understood. A blue paper could mean noth- 
ing to her. . . . What had the little grinning devil 
said? He tried, with aching brow, to remember. Had 
she only been frightened of his outburst of anger? No. 
Some uncanny knowledge had looked out of her eyes. 
Was it possible she had understood the meaning of the 
scene? Curse Renee d'Almaine and all her tribe. . . . 
It was a planned thing. Evidently Pollock had known 
they were returning to Lyndhurst for the honeymoon. 
He remembered that Renee had once told him that her 
husband had been a solicitor, and was struck off the 
rolls. Pollock had worked the whole thing. 

He got up and went out into the hall. It seemed 
very cold and silent without her gay laugh, her girlish 
voice. He could feel her little hand being slid into his 
as they came up the drive. Was it only a few minutes 
ago? It was more like hours. 

Could she, could she have understood the meaning of 
the scene? He kept asking himself the question anx- 
iously, over and over again, for if he made a false step — 
If she did not know — and how could she — why had she 
changed so suddenly? What was she doing and thinking 
upstairs, alone? What was that look on her face? Was 
it suffering? 

As he realized that it was, he went up the stairs to 
her room with a rush. He must know the worst. 


CHAPTER XXV 


“the thorn’ ’ 

As he mounted the stairs, he felt acutely wretched 
and uneasy, as he did not remember ever having felt in 
his life before. He loved Verity, but he realized, as 
many a man has done before him, that he really knew 
very little about the woman he had married. A woman 
of the world he thought he understood ; he would know 
what to say to her; but a girl like Verity? He felt him- 
self at sea, drifting about in a fog. But he was deter- 
mined at least to get rid of the fog, and to find where 
his craft lay. 

He went to the room he had had specially upholstered 
and prepared for her. To his surprise the door was ajar. 
He called her name softly, and pushed the door open. 
But the room was empty. It stood in its daintiness wait- 
ing to receive the bride, but she was not there. Its 
silvery gray walls and pretty hangings, that had been 
specially designed as a frame to Verity’s vivid personal- 
ity and auburn coloring, had no occupant. Not even her 
maid was in sight; for with a desire to give all the 
privacy possible to the bridal couple, the servants were 
keeping out of the way. Where was Verity? Had she 
gone out into the grounds? What door, then, had he 
heard bang behind her? 

A sudden inspiration, born of his love for her, came to 
him, for he was not wont to have much intuition where 
women were concerned. They had always hitherto seemed 
to him like an easy primer, that any one could read and 
understand. Subtleties had always bored him; he was 

288 


“THE THORN” 


too indifferent to probe them. He went along the cor- 
ridor to Queen Elizabeth’s room, and here he found the 
door shut. He tapped gently, but there was no response. 
He tried the door; it was locked. He tapped again. No 
answer. 

With unwonted patience he waited quietly. Pres- 
ently he heard what he was sure was a stifled sob. He 
had not known that any sound could move him so. 

“Verity,” he called, “Verity, dearest, open the door 
to me. I want to speak to you.” 

But though he waited a long time, she did not open 
the door, nor could he distinguish another sound. 

At length he went downstairs, and after much hard 
work and many scraps thrown into the waste-paper bas- 
ket, he wrote her a letter. It was the moment for a 
great psychologist, an experienced diplomatist where 
women were concerned; and Burford, though he had seen 
a good deal of the sex, was neither. It was a horribly 
difficult letter to write. He did not want to plead guilty 
and ask forgiveness, for how could she know what the 
blue paper had contained? Yet he could not assume 
that nothing was wrong at all. As he said to himself, 
with much inward swearing, it was the devil of a job. 
But he accomplished it somehow. He went upstairs 
himself and pushed it under the door. Then he went 
downstairs again, and with what patience he could mus- 
ter, he waited for an answer. He cursed the man Pol- 
lock till he was tired, but it did not materially alter the 
situation. Of course, he must somehow stop the case 
— the citation had been served by a disreputable firm of 
solicitors— but for the moment he could think only of 
Verity. He had appealed to her to let him speak to her, 
to tell him in what respect he had offended. He had 
assumed, as being the only way out of the situation, that 
she had been frightened by his ebullition of passion. 

After he had waited for what seemed an eternity, her 
maid came to him bearing a note. Her face wore the 
carefully trained expression of nothingness, but he 
20 289 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

thought he detected curiosity in a glance she cast at 
him. 

The note said, “I will see you in the picture gal- 
lery.’ ’ No signature. 

She was standing at the far end, looking out of the 
window; but as his footsteps echoed through the gallery 
she turned and moved away, so that her face was in the 
shadow. 

“Verity,” he said, eagerly, but she motioned him 
back, and the disdainful gesture and the way she held 
her head reminded him of her mother. 

“You wanted to see me,” she said, quietly, and there 
was no hint of any emotion save a great fatigue in her 
voice. He had expected a passion of childish sobs, a 
tornado of emotion, but not — this quiet. 

“Yes,” he said, trying to find his words. “Verity, 
why did you run away and lock yourself up? What — 
what have I done?” 

“Do you really want me to tell you?” she said, wear- 
ily. “Isn’t it a useless repetition? I consented to see 
you, not because it was necessary to go into what — what 
has happened, but to make some plans for the future. I 
cannot lock myself up from you always. I saw that I 
must see you.” 

He listened, bewildered, waiting for something he 
could seize upon. “But, what do you mean?” he said. 
“What — what do you think has happened?” 

“Oh! if you want me to put it into words, I will,” 
she said with a touch of scorn. “It will make a nice 
tit-bit for the papers, won’t it? The happy bride re- 
ceives a belated wedding present in the shape of a cita- 
tion for her husband to appear as co-respondent in the 
Divorce Court! Quite an unusual home-coming, isn’t 
it?” 

“I’ll quash the case,” said Burford, savagely. 
“But — Good God! how did you know?” 

She looked up in momentary surprise. She had for- 
gotten that the anonymous letter had given her the key 

290 


“THE THORN” 


to the puzzle. Without it, it was true, the scene might 
have been unintelligible to her. 

“It doesn’t matter how I know,” she said, shortly. 
“We need not discuss that. It is a pity that it did not 
come sooner. I am told it is usual for men of honor to 
marry the woman after her husband has divorced her. 
It is unfortunate that the ceremony to-day precludes that 
possibility.” 

“Verity, you don’t know what you are talking 
about,” said Burford, with an angry laugh. “A man 
does not marry that kind of woman. You don’t under- 
stand.” 

“Why, then, does he — he love her?” 

“He doesn’t. I tell you it is all a plan. I can easily 
quash this case. Why, the woman is — ” He checked 
himself. 

“I had heard that men sometimes abuse a woman 
when her love became inconvenient,” returned Verity, 
with the same curious air of being detached from the 
whole discussion, as though they were talking of some 
one else’s case. “But it never seemed possible until 
now. ’ ’ 

“Verity, listen. You are running your head against 
a brick wall. Oh! my dear, don’t look at me like that. 
Won’t you try and understand?” His voice was very 
humble. 

“Say what you have to say.” 

“I could have murdered that little swine and half a 
dozen other men as well, rather than this should have 
happened to-day. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. 
It’s ” 

He could not find the words he wanted. 

“It is extremely bad luck, is that what you want to 
say?” she said, quietly. 

“Verity!” Her perspicacity took the wind out of 
his sails. 

“To a man like you, all these things are merely a 
matter of bad form, ill-luck, are they not? I begin to 

291 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


realize the force of ‘Thou shalt not be found out.' I was 
told it was the only commandment nowadays.” 

He listened in silence. Her composure, her calm 
acceptance of the situation, made her seem more like a 
stranger than ever. Where and how had she obtained this 
command over herself? why had she suddenly grown into 
a woman? If only she would break down and let him 
comfort her. But there was no hint of break down in 
her voice or manner. It was not even hard or defiant, it 
was merely wearily indifferent. 

“I know it must have been a terrible shock to you,” 
he said, after a pause. “I don’t wonder you were 
upset.” 

She gave a little sarcastic laugh. 

“But if you will believe me, the whole thing doesn’t 
— ought not to make any difference between us. No, let 
me go on. By some means or other, I shall quash this 
case. It is only a game of bluff. The blackguard hoped 
that this would happen. Yes, it is cursed ill-luck that 
you should have entered the library that instant. There 
is nothing in it really. I shall not figure in the Divorce 
Court. No one need ever know.” 

‘‘Do you think it is only the publicity I mind? Do 
you think I should care a jot if you were charged with 
the foulest of charges if — if you were innocent? But 
you cannot deny that this thing is true, can you?” 
There may have been the faintest lingering shadow of 
hope in her voice. 

He shrugged his broad shoulders in the clumsy way of 
the Englishman. “No,” he said, sullenly, ‘‘technically 
I am guilty, but there is nothing to be ashamed of in the 
case, as far as I am concerned. I did not even know the 
woman’s husband was alive, and I tell you she is — one of 
the things that men use and that women like you know 
nothing about. I owe her nothing. She was not my 
neighbor’s wife, or anything like that. And the case 
will never go through. It is a rotten thing to have hap- 
pened on our wedding-day, and I most humbly ask your 

292 


“THE THORN” 


pardon that such a thing could have occurred. Verity, 
you won’t let it make any difference?’’ 

“Hasn’t it made all the difference? Is it any good 
asking that a hurricane or a tornado should make no 
difference?” 

“But, Verity, I never pretended to you I was a plaster 
saint. I told you I wasn’t good enough for you. You 
knew I was — well, the average sort of man.” 

“I don’t believe it. You’re not the average sort of 
man. I won’t believe it,” she said, with a touch of pas- 
sion. “I would never believe that George Bradley, for 
instance, would act as you have done. What you say 
about this woman makes it all the worse. On your own 
showing, you acted like any beast of the field, without 
heart or brain. I think I would rather hear that you had 
really cared. It would place you on a higher level.” 

His skin flushed a dull red. 

“You have exposed me to this insult; you have not 
even acted judiciously, according to your lights. You 
have blundered even in your code of polite pretences. I 
cannot feel any respect for you.” 

He drew himself up sharply. “Shall I go then?” he 
said. “What do you wish me to do?” 

“I have been thinking things over,” she said. “I 
think you owe me something for what has happened?” 

He bowed. “I will meet you in any way I can.” 

“Thank you. Unfortunately, we cannot undo what 
has been done. We have been made husband and wife 
legally, but we need not go any farther with the con- 
tract. Please don’t say anything,” she went on more 
hurriedly, “I couldn’t do it. I should lose all my own 
self-respect, and if you urged me, I — I should hate you. 
We can never live together as man and wife.” 

“Good God, Verity! are you never going to forgive 
me? You can’t be so cruel, so hard; you — you, Verity!” 

“It isn’t a question of forgiveness,” she said. “Do 
you remember speaking once about the poor bride who 
was brought home here and found on her wedding-day 

293 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


that her husband had — had a wife in the village? And 
you said she was a great josser not to forgive her hus- 
band. And I remember replying, ‘Perhaps the news 
killed her love/ Now I know that must have been 
right. I do not stand in judgment on you, Burford. I 
only know that the news has killed my love for you. You 
don't seem even the same man to me as you stand 
there." 

"But I am," said her husband, gently. "It is you 
who have changed, Verity." 

"Is it? Shocks are dangerous things to play with, 
aren't they? Somehow I don’t seem to be able to feel 
any more. I feel like a big, empty vessel; my own 
words sound hollow to me. But life has got to go on 
just the same. " , 

"Do you wish me to go away and leave you here?" he 
said. "If you dislike me so much, if you are quite sure 
you can never forgive me, you can easily go back to 
America and divorce me. I am sure that can easily be 
fixed up." 

"You seem to know a good deal about divorces," she 
said, quickly. "I beg your pardon. I ought not to have 
said that." 

"But, naturally," went on Burford, outwardly un- 
moved, "it cannot be done to-night, nor yet to-morrow 
morning. I am sorry. But in the meantime " 

"That will fit in quite well with my plan," said 
Verity. "If we do not appear to live together the world 
will talk, and I suppose for the purposes of a divorce we 
must seem to have lived together. But, more than all, 
I do not want to hurt my mother. There is a special 
reason why this would make her very unhappy. She will 
be going back to New York soon, and until then we must 
seem to live amiably under the same roof. After she 
has gone back, we — we can rearrange matters." 

It was evident from the methodical way in which she 
spoke that she had thought it all out. Too deeply hurt 
for tears save those inward ones that scald the heart, her 

294 


“THE THORN” 


first impulse had been to put many miles between them, 
to beg Philippa to take her back to New York, anywhere 
away from her husband. But after the first sharp agony, 
the picture of her mother’s face had come before her, as 
she had looked when she said how unhappy she would be 
if any mischance befell this union. Her mother would 
never forgive herself for her share in bringing about 
this marriage. Verity had not been blind to the wooing 
of Holt Vicary, and though she had been puzzled at the 
later moves of the game, she thought it more than pos- 
sible that they would come together. Her mother once 
safely married to Holt, she would not be so unhappy at 
the miscarriage of her daughter’s happiness. 

“Is this your plan?’’ said Burford, when she had 
finished. “Is this what you want me to do?” 

“Yes, if you will.” She found herself watching him 
with curious indifference, noting the faults of his face as 
she had never done before. She saw it was altogether 
too heavy, that the mouth was too full and the brow too 
low. She wondered she had not noticed it before. 

He turned away and went to the window. Presently 
he came back to her. 

“You don’t know much about men and their passions, 
do you, Verity?” he said, quietly, though she felt that 
he was keeping himself well in hand. “I do owe you 
something, it is true, but you are asking a hell of a lot 
from me.” She saw that he was too agitated to pick his 
words. “Do you imagine it is going to be a very pleas- 
ant proceeding for me to live here under the same roof 
with you — you, my wife— and have no rights, no priv- 
ileges? Because you have ceased to love me, it does not 
follow that I have ceased to love and desire you. You 
think apparently that I am a sort of Don Juan; but it 
happens that I have never been badly in love with a 
woman before, and, though I suppose it doesn’t reflect 
any credit on me, I have never been balked before when 
I have had even a fancy for a woman. And you ask me 
to live here with you, have my meals with you, see you 

295 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


constantly, and behave to you as though we were mere 
acquaintances? Or,” he laughed rather brutally, “do 
you propose that I should offer you a few attentions in 
public to put people off the scent? Oh! you needn’t 
shrink back from me. At least I know the utter folly of 
trying to coerce a woman like you. It’s a good job for 
your scheme that I do love you, otherwise, if it was only 
passion I felt for you — well, sauve qui pent. But as it 
is, Lady Rees, I make you a welcome guest in my house 
until such time as you see fit to release me from my 
obligations.” She saw that the hand by his side was 
tightly clenched, that his eyes looked at her fiercely, 
hungrily, and yet with a certain grudging respect. 

The dressing-bell for dinner boomed softly through 
the gallery. It was to have been such a happy little din- 
ner, too. He had ordered the butler to bring up some 
very special wine from the cellar; and he himself, with 
the care of an epicure, had conferred with the cook on 
the subject of the menu. Just they two together, it was 
to have been, a good bottle of sparkling wine, a few 
choice dishes, a rose-strewn table, coffee and liquors on 
the terrace, and then a stroll in the moonlight, when the 
air was full of the sweet scent of folding flowers. 

He turned on his heel with a laugh. “Do you do me 
the honor of dining with me to-night, madame?” 

“I— I suppose I had better,” said Verity, faintly, 
for she, too, had remembered. 

He strode away from her down the gallery, and the 
little mistress of Lyndhurst, so tired, so weary, so un- 
happy and forlorn, sank into one of the window-seats, 
and buried her face in her hands. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


MORE THAN A PLAYTHING 

FROM that day began one of the strangest honeymoons 
that ever was. The surroundings were perfect, almost 
idyllic. The birds sang, the sun shone, and Nature was 
at her kindliest; but the principal actors in the drama 
were thoroughly wretched and miserable, for the first 
time in their lives. Although there was a considerable 
gap between their ages, the sum total in both cases had 
been comfort and pleasure. Verity was too young to 
have felt the touch of suffering: Burford had always 
avoided disagreeable things, and by donning an armor of 
indifference, he had kept at bay the arrows that might 
have wounded him. But Verity had deprived him of this 
armor; for the first time he suffered not only for himself, 
but because of the blank look in her eyes, the droop of 
her mouth, the listless demeanor of the girl who had 
been such a sunny thing of youth and gladness. 

Naturally, he could never comprehend her point of 
view; although, after a while, he made allowances. He 
had thought her much more a woman of the world, but 
he did not realize that, though she was neither an igno- 
ramus nor a prig, the personal shock had been too great 
for her. We may utter smart cynicisms for years, but 
when they come home to roost, we find, to our surprise, 
how much we can suffer at what we carelessly dismissed 
in a few paradoxical words. Verity really and honestly 
believed that her love for Burford had been extinguished. 
There were times when she felt a furious hate against 
him, and against life, that had snatched her happiness 

297 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

from her. Then there were days when she felt only a 
dull indifference, and thought of herself as a disillusioned 
woman of the world, with love behind her. 

She did not realize it herself, but deep down she was 
both resentful and angry with him. She was a passion- 
ate creature, and jealousy and outraged pride were 
gnawing like a maddening toothache. To pretend that 
your heart is broken, that the bottom has been knocked 
out of life, is more dignified than to own to jealous 
anger, and many women consciously or unconsciously 
deceive themselves. The affair had stabbed her to the 
heart, and she was deeply wounded ; but, though Burford 
had to believe her when she told him that her love for 
him was dead, it was only stunned. 

But she did not behave in a petty manner, and Bur- 
ford’s respect increased tenfold for her. She did not sulk 
or become snappy. She talked to him as though he were 
a remote stranger, whose better acquaintance she did not 
desire, but she did not lower herself by innuendo or bit- 
ter retorts. Before the servants they both kept up 
appearances wonderfully, but once they had withdrawn, 
conversation immediately came to an abrupt cessation, 
and they soon drifted apart. 

And they were both desperately dull. Every day 
seemed to have at least forty-eight hours in it. The two 
met at meal-times, but during the rest of the day they 
seldom encountered each other. And, of course, as 
they were on their honeymoon, no one called, or ventured 
within the gates. In the ordinary way, Burford was not 
a man who could not enjoy his own society; he frequently 
went off on expeditions by himself, but the situation at 
Lyndhurst was not conducive to peace of mind. He did 
not realize, until he had lost it, how much he had looked 
forward to the quiet, unconventional honeymoon they 
had planned together. Now he wished that they had 
gone abroad, and been able to mix with their kind. 

“Patience is a bitter cup that the strong alone can 
drink. ’ ’ Both Verity and Burford had begun to find out 

298 


MORE THAN A PLAYTHING 


their weakness, for Verity had determined that her 
mother should not suspect that anything was wrong, at 
any rate for some months, and Burford had resolved dog- 
gedly that he would take without flinching the punish- 
ment she had meted out to him. 

One of Verity’s hardest tasks was to write to her 
mother. She had promised to do so during the first 
week. She put it off and off, till she could do so no 
longer. It was the most difficult task in composition she 
had ever undertaken, and several times she nearly flung 
down her pen in despair. It is difficult for a frank 
nature to be deceitful, even when the intentions are 
good. She could not tell Philippa how much she wanted 
her, for she would guess that she was not happy. She 
could not word it too carefully in the best essay style, for 
the letter of a week-old bride should be spontaneous, and 
possibly a little incoherent with happiness. A too fe- 
licitously worded epistle is suspicious of much, a blot 
or two, or even an erasure will often save the situation. 
Verity hated even to write Burford’s name, but she could 
not very well indite a letter without it. To say the least 
of it, it would seem odd. She spent hours over the let- 
ter, and spoiled a prodigious quantity of note-paper, but 
at last it was accomplished. Had she been committing a 
forgery, Verity could not have felt more guilty. It was 
mostly filled up with descriptions of the roses and the 
country-side, and she left it for Philippa to infer that 
it was shyness that held back the point of her pen. 
Some of the sentences were truthful enough. “I never 
dreamed what life could hold till I came down here. I 
look upon the world with different eyes, and I feel, oh! 
so very much older and wiser. ... I love Lyndhurst 
more and more.” This was true, for, although it was his 
home, it seemed to enfold her with an air of friendli- 
ness. “No one could have a more beautiful home, I am 
sure. The garden and grounds are like a scene in a 
romantic play; I never imagined such things really did 
exist. I” (carefully corrected to we)“ wander about the 

299 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


grounds, and every day I find some fresh beauty. Isn’t 
the English country-side wonderful? Darling mother, I 
hope you are having a good time. I often think of you. 
... I think I understand some things better now. You 
have always been the dearest of mothers and companions. 
Have I ever told you this before? ...” 

She was just sealing up the letter — she was writing it 
in the library — when Burford came into the room. 

”1 beg your pardon,” he said, instantly, “I did not 
know you were here.” He turned to go. 

“I have just finished,” said Verity, coldly. “I am 
going.” 

He hesitated and looked at the back of her head, as 
she sat in the window alcove. The face she had moment- 
arily turned on him, as he entered, was pale, and there 
were shadows under the eyes; but in her white spotted 
muslin frock, with its little frills of dainty Valenciennes 
lace, a suggestion of softest pink showing through the 
bodice from the ribbons of her camisole, she looked very 
pretty and girlish. With the accusing eyes hidden, he 
could hardly believe it was not the same Verity he had 
wooed in the Secret Chamber. He had a wild impulse to 
go behind her and crush her in his arms, but he con- 
trolled himself. Her love for him was dead, and though 
you can take a fortress by force, you cannot awaken the 
dead by shouting. 

“Verity,” he said, pretending to be busy at one of 
the bookcases, and holding a volume of “Lamb’s Es- 
says” upside down, “I wanted to say something to you. ” 

“Is it necessary?” replied Verity, after a faint pause. 

“Yes, I think so, or I would not trouble you. It is 
partly your affair as well as mine. With my own affairs 
I should not think of worrying you. ... I have been in 
communication with my solicitors. I think it will be all 
right. It was merely a piece of bluff. It would be im- 
possible to let the case go into court, and his solicitors 
never meant to proceed with it. I thought you had 
better know.” 


300 


MORE THAN A PLAYTHING 


“ Thank you. I — I daresay it is as well. Your fam- 
ily would not like it, I am sure.” 

“Hang my family. It — it doesn’t make any differ- 
ence to you?” 

Verity shook her head as she rose from the table. “I 
am glad there will not be any public scandal, but— what 
difference can it make? You don’t understand, or you 
wouldn’t ask the question.” 

He turned over a leaf of the book. A woman will 
always notice trifles even in the most tragic or rapturous 
moments, and Verity saw that the book was upside down. 

“You think me an awful beast, don’t you?” he said. 

The hand that held the letter shook a little, but she 
answered, quietly enough: 

“I told you before I do not judge you. I see now it 
was partly my own fault. I ought not to have married 
you. I suppose you didn’t deceive me. I deceived 
myself. ’ ’ 

“No,” he said, quickly, “I won’t have you blame 
yourself. Don’t do that, Verity. I am a beast, of 
course, but — will you try and believe something if I tell 
it to you?” He looked down at the red and blue mean- 
derings of the Turkey carpet at his feet, and he was 
undoubtedly a little sheepish. Lady Margetson would 
have had the surprise of her life if she could have seen 
him. For Burford Rees to have lost his savoir fair e — 
well, she would have looked up at the heavens, expecting 
to see them open. 

“I have never found you lie to me,” said Verity. 

“I want to say,” said her husband, speaking very 
quickly, “that now — after knowing you and loving you I 
— I couldn’t do such a wretched, sordid thing. I look at 
women differently now because of you, and the whole 
episode does look beastly to me. You are quite right. I 
am on a level with the beasts of the fields. I never 
thought of it in that light till you put it that way. 
Men don’t think about that kind of thing at all. They 
just take what comes along.” 

301 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Why — why don’t they think?” said Verity, in a low 
voice. 

Burford shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose it’s be- 
cause we knock about the world so much earlier than 
women. It’s usually women who evolve theories about 
life and conduct, and talk about the psychology of love 
and passion. They sit at home and think things out. 
Men — well, live men do things. It’s like a boy who is 
brought up in his father’s business, and starts helping 
his father before he has begun to think of his own career 
at all. He drifts into the same business and stops there. 
He doesn’t do what other young men of more leisure do, 
weigh up this and that, and ponder over what his profes- 
sion shall be. He finds himself one day — plante la! You 
know, we men hate discomfort, and once we’ve begun to 
go with the tide it’s jolly uncomfortable to row back 
against it. . . . It all sounds very commonplace and 
materialistic, doesn’t it? But I’m telling you the truth. 
I don’t want to put anything in a false light to you, 
Verity, even if I had the ability to gloss over things, 
which I haven’t. God knows, I’d give a great deal to 
get your good opinion back again. I suppose — I suppose 
there isn’t any chance? Won’t you even try to forgive 
me?” 

“I — I have forgiven you,” she faltered. This was 
untrue, but she did not know it. He looked up eagerly, 
but she shook her head and drew back. “But I can’t 
feel the same any more, Burford.” 

In her agitation she dropped the letter. He stooped 
and picked it up for her, and he could not help seeing the 
inscription, for Verity’s handwriting was clear and bold. 

He shot a questioning glance at her as he handed it 
back. 

“Thank you ... I have been writing to mother. 
You understand. She is not to know anything. I — I 
have told her nothing at all.” 

The tears suddenly came into her eyes. A wave of 
loneliness and heartache swept over her. She felt an 

302 


MORE THAN A PLAYTHING 


irresistible longing to put her head on Philippa’s shoul- 
der and sob out all the wretched truth. It is only in 
middle-age that the habit of suffering in silence is 
acquired. 

“Oh! Verity,’’ he said, passionately. “I wish — ’’ 
Then he turned away abruptly to the fireplace, for at the 
sight of the tears welling up in her dear, golden eyes, a 
lump had come into his throat that choked him. Her 
pluck in bearing her trouble all alone, her youthfulness, 
her forlorn pride, and invariable courtesy made him hate 
and long to kick himself. And his love and respect for 
her grew stronger and stronger, as she drew farther 
away from him. “The littlest thing’’ was something 
more than a pretty plaything: she was a woman to whom 
a man might give his whole love and confidence. 

He heard a little sound behind him that was very like 
a sob. She was just going out of the door. 

“Verity,” he called, “just one moment. I — I have 
got to go up to London to-morrow to see my solicitors. 
Will you pardon me if I desert you for the day?” 

She nodded, and then she began to laugh a little. “I 
daresay — it will — be a relief to both of us. And after a 
week of the honeymoon — well, no one will be surprised, 
will they? To be completely happy on one’s honeymoon 
would be such bad form in your world, wouldn’t it?” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


“ I ain't hoping for nothing, never no more" 

The next morning, Verity saw Burford drive off in 
the motor to the station, and she knew that for that day, 
at least, she was free of his presence. He was driving 
the car himself, and she could not help reluctantly admir- 
ing the masterly way in which he turned an awkward 
curve in the avenue. He was a sportsman and a man, 
every inch of him. Verity wondered vaguely if she 
would rather have had Rex Patterson, with his nimble 
brain and mediocre physique. “He would never have 
done that , ’ ’ she said to herself. She had no real grounds 
for her belief, but she knew. And yet, when they had 
been rivals, it had been the virility of Burford that had 
attracted her. She began to speculate in a useless, idle 
way, whether, if Rex had encountered the same tempta- 
tions, he would have resisted them; whether his strength 
of mind would have controlled the desires of the 
body. She had noted, even in the old days before her 
eyes were open, how women looked at Burford as he 
moved among them. Remembering, she understood the 
language of their eyes better now. She had heard some 
one say once, “When a clever woman sets her heart on 
a man, Heaven help him, for only a miracle will save 
him!" She frowned as she thought of it. Was it true 
that women tempted men to such a degree? 

But the maid was entering with some letters. 

The first she opened was from Evangeline, who had 
gone to Oberammergau to please her husband, and also 
because it was one of the things “one ought to see." 

304 


“I AIN'T HOPING FOR NOTHING" 


*‘I don’t suppose for an instant you want a letter from 
me, for I am sure you have locked the world and all its 
worldlinesses — I am one of them in your mind — out of your 
Paradise. I can imagine you two among the roses and the 
grasshoppers cooing to one another in quite the approved story- 
book style. You were quite a wonderful bride, and the biggest 
advertisement for matrimony I ever saw in my life. I am sure 
a picture of you in your tulle veil and orange blossoms would 
bring up the marriage rate with a leap. 

“I hate Oberammergau, and I am bored to extinction. But 
Charles is so happy that I haven’t the heart to yawn in his 
face ; so, while the play is going on, I plan my winter frocks 
and what I shall do at Finborough Castle. I was thinking yes- 
terday about a new model dairy I mean to install there, and 
Charles turned to me and whispered, ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ I 
said, ‘It will be when:I’ve done with it, and we’ll certainly have 
Jersey cows!’ Charles thinks I have a touch of sunstroke* and 
I think he’s plumb silly. So there you are ! 

“There are crowds of our countrywomen here, and you 
never saw such a rummage sale in your life. Where they come 
from the Lord only knows. I once went into Siegel Cooper’s 
store in New York, on a bargain day, and saw something like 
it. As Lady Finborough, I attract a good deal of attention, 
but I have determined not to be quite so American. The crowd 
here has done for me. I am really trying to speak more slowly, 
and be less Spread Eagley. By the bye, a man here gave a 
dandy explanation of why we talk, or are supposed to talk, 
through our noses. He said, ‘Well, Americans talk so fast 
and so much that the words hit up against the roof of the 
mouth, and some of them have just got to come out through 
the nose !’ 

“Write and tell me how you are getting on. Don’t forget 
what I said to you some time ago in your bedroom. Don’t 
idealize too much, my child, because, though your Burford is a 
good sort, he isn’t a saint. And if a man’s a saint you want to 
turn him into a sinner. I’ve got a saint, and I wish sometimes 
he’d give me the chance of forgiving him his trespasses. Don’t 
expect romantic impossibilities, because, though he’s dreadfully 
in love with you — I never saw such a change in a man— he can’t 
wear plumes and a slashed doublet all his life. I came across 
this the other day, and thought of you, ‘The violence of love 
vanishes soon after marriage. If the love of bride and bride- 
groom were to endure, the Resurrection Day would be at hand. ’ 

“So long, dear Verity. If my letter seems cynical, it’s 
really because I’m envious. Yours, 

“Evangeline.” 


21 


305 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


The other letters were all trivial, except one from 
George Bradley, telling her that the business was satis- 
factorily settled, and that he was sailing for England 
again. “Your husband will be able to look after your 
affairs now, and help you control your fortune, ” he con- 
cluded. “It’s odd to think of my little Verity with a 
husband, and such a big one! The old man, when he 
made the will, little knew how happily his plans would 
turn out. Fancy old Marlowe playing the part of Cupid !” 

Verity laughed bitterly as she read the last lines. 
“How happily his plans would turn out!” — George little 
knew. 

After lunch, Verity determined to take a long walk. 
She felt restless and nervous, and she decided that a good 
tramp would do her good. It was a hot afternoon; but, 
clad in a thin frock, and with a sunshade over her head, 
she started out. She had never walked far outside the 
village, but to-day she meant to explore. As she passed 
through the little, sleepy village, where the cats slept on 
the doorsteps of the few tiny shops, and the dogs came 
up and wagged their tails at her, she found herself 
respectfully saluted on all sides. The children bobbed 
their little curtseys from the roadway, and the old men 
touched their hats and wished her “good-day.” Lynd- 
hurst had adopted her — the girl who was yet no wife 
to Burford Rees. The women glanced at her with the 
curiosity and interest that a bride will always arouse, 
and everybody so evidently expected her to be happy that 
she tried to look so. Once out in the open country lanes, 
her face lost its air of determined happiness. The smile 
died away from her lips. 

But Nature, in her prodigality of coloring and form, 
attracted her eyes, and kept her from brooding. At first 
she walked unheedingly, then the delights of the roadside 
began to entice her. She stopped first of all to pick a 
sprig of young oak, exquisite in its ruddy coloring and 
firm leaves. Then she paused to add a few harebells, 
so fragile, so ephemeral, that they might have been fairy 

306 


“I AIN’T HOPING FOR NOTHING” 


bells. The hedges on either side were teeming with life. 
Large dog daisies, with their great flaunting yellow eyes, 
turned up boldly to the sun, golden mullein, big fronds 
of fool’s parsley shading from white to pink, purple 
mallow, poppies with their vivid scarlet petals swaying 
in the wind on long, delicate stems, the sturdy knap- 
weed, honeysuckle, and sweetbrier perfuming the road 
with almost intoxicating sweetness — a thousand and one 
plants and trees all claimed her attention. She was a 
great lover of flowers, and, like a child, she stopped to 
pick a bloom here and there. Soon she had collected 
quite a goodly bunch. Presently she came to a cottage, 
where her eyes were caught by the words, ‘‘Teas pro- 
vided,” roughly cut on a piece of wood nailed to a tree. 
Verity realized that she had walked a long way, and that 
she was a little weary. She went up the tidy cottage 
path between borders of pinks, and knocked at the door. 
A small child opened it, and a woman with a baby in her 
arms came up quickly behind her. 

Verity inquired if she could have some tea. 

‘‘Certainly, miss,” said the woman, who was clean 
and tidy, but toil-worn, as is the way with the laboring 
classes. ‘‘Will you come inside?” She held the door 
open, and Verity stepped in. 

It was the usual cottage parlor, with its colored prints 
and texts, its red and black tablecloth, its woolwork 
mats, and big, showy lamp. 

But the tea was good — lettuce picked fresh from the 
garden, honey from their own hives, and good country 
butter. Verity found herself enjoying it all. There 
were several children running about, who peeped in at 
her curiously now and again. Verity could not help 
noticing a photograph in the middle of the mantelpiece 
in a florid frame. It was that of a man in a soldier’s 
uniform. 

When the woman brought in some boiling water, 
Verity said, ‘‘Is that your husband?” 

The woman’s eyes lit up for a moment. ‘‘Yes, miss,” 
307 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


she said, “leastways, that was my first husband. He went 
out to South Africa to fight in the Boer War.” 

“And he was killed?” said Verity, sympathetically. 

“Not out there, miss. He was out there nearly two 
years, and he had a fine record, he had. Oh, wasn’t I 
proud of him! Then one day he writes me as he’s 
a-coming ’ome for good. I nearly went off my ’ead with 
joy. I’d got a little boy he’d never seen, and we hadn’t 
been married but a year when he went away. But, sez 
he, I ought to do something for my country when they 
asks for volunteers. And Sir Burford Rees” — Verity 
gave a start — “he lives about ’ere, miss, and he’s our 
landlord, he promises as I should be well looked after 
while he goes away. He kept his word, too. There 
ain’t many like him, miss.” 

Verity poured out some tea with an unsteady hand. 

“Go on,” she said. 

“Well, as I sez, when I gets the letter I was fair 
crazed, cos two years is a long time not to see your man, 
ain’t it? I gets the house like a new pin, I puts up 
clean curtains, and I makes all the cakes he used to like, 
and I waits for him. Then one day I gets a telegram — I 
can’t bear the sight of one now — telling me to go to 
Southampton at once. I bundled off quick, and when I 
gets there I find he’s in the hospital with entrick fever. 
I never see him alive again. He was dead before I see 
him.” 

“Oh, you poor thing!” 

The woman shook her head. “Since then I ain’t 
hoped for nothing, never no more.” She looked dully at 
the photograph. All the romance of her life was in that 
photograph. 

“After that,” the woman continued after a pause, 
“his mate what used to court me before my ’usband came 
along, he asked me to marry him. He sez, ‘You’re left 
lonesome and it’ll be natral like for us to marry.’ So I 
marries him and I’ve got five children by him.” 

“And he isn’t jealous of your affection for your dead 
308 


“I AIN'T HOPING FOR NOTHING" 


husband?" inquired Verity, looking at the photograph 
in its prominent position. 

"No, miss. He understands as it can't be the same, 
though I ain’t unhappy now. You see, he always wanted 
me, and he couldn't care for no other woman, so he 
understands. There ain't but one love in your life, and 
him and me knows it. ... No, I ain't hoping for noth- 
ing, never no more." 

As Verity walked away from the cottage the woman's 
words rang in her ears. "There ain't but one love in 
your life. ... I ain’t hoping for nothing, never no 
more." A sense of the irretrievable, the inevitable, the 
tragic possibilities of life, swept over her, for a moment 
blotting out her own immediate problem. Did the 
woman speak truly? Would love never come again for 
her in this life? Would no other man fill Burford’s 
place in her heart and thoughts? She had been reading 
a novel recently that talked a great deal about "recon- 
structing your life." Suppose she could not reconstruct 
her life? It sounded a fine thing to do; it only seemed 
to demand strength of character. The writer of the 
book urged that nothing was inevitable in life. If you 
are only strong enough, he preached, you can pick up the 
threads and weave another pattern. But had the writer 
reckoned without love? Could the pattern be as beau- 
tiful? Even the woman in the cottage had had her 
romance, and the only visible remains of it were con- 
tained in a cheap photograph of a young man in khaki, 
wearing a forced smile. Verity felt very much subdued 
as she trudged along. She seemed to feel smaller, more 
alone with her burden, than ever. 

She arrived at some cross-roads, and discovered that 
she did not remember the way she had come. Country 
lanes are as alike to the casual eye as peas in a pod, and 
Verity had not taken in the general features of the land- 
scape. Her eyes had been on the hedges. She was a 
little tired, for the sun was still hot, and she did not 
want to go on walking in a wrong direction. She was 

309 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


hesitating and wishing some pedestrian or cottage 
were in sight, when she heard the sound of footsteps. A 
woman was humming to herself around the corner, and 
Verity recognized the song. It was “Ninon/ ’ Who 
would hum “Ninon’ ’ in Lyndhurst? 

The woman’s hat shaded her face, but as Verity 
accosted her and she looked up, she knew her at once. It 
was the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Sinclair. Verity had seen 
her in the vicarage pew. For an instant a great sur- 
prise filled Mrs. Sinclair’s face at the sight of the pretty, 
girlish figure all alone at Bowden’s Corner. Then she 
smiled cordially and held out her hand. 

“Fancy meeting you, Lady Rees! You are a good 
walker.” 

“Yes, but I have lost my way,” said Verity, “you 
don’t know how glad I was to hear your footsteps. 
These lanes are all exactly alike.” 

Mrs. Sinclair laughed. “I expect they do seem so 
to you, but I know them so well. Are you — alone?” 
She could not keep a faint note of surprise out of her 
voice. 

Verity colored up and hurriedly opened her sunshade, 
for she had heard it. She realized that it might seem 
strange for a bride of a week to be wandering unescorted 
on her husband’s estate and to lose her way on it. 

“Yes,” she said, a little nervously. “My — my hus- 
band has had to go to town on business for the day, so I 
thought I would amuse myself by exploring. But I should 
never make a good explorer. I have no bump of local- 
ity. And — and when you go along thinking, you hardly 
notice the landmarks, do you?” 

Mrs. Sinclair agreed, and began to chatter about the 
road. But she knew instantly that something was wrong 
with the mistress of Lyndhurst. Verity had barely 
remarked her during that one visit before her marriage 
when she had been introduced to her, but Mrs. Sinclair 
was not the ordinary type of vicar’s wife. Her eyes 
alone would have told that. They must have been very 

310 


“I AIN’T HOPING FOR NOTHING” 


beautiful in her early youth; they were still fine. Very 
dark, almost black — her mother had been Spanish — they 
lit up the pale face, with its thin, well-shaped nose, and 
sensitive mouth. The eyes were filled now with a sort of 
spiritual peace and contentment, as though the owner 
had at length found the best things in life; but one could 
see that they had once been alive with passion, that they 
could flash with intense feeling and emotion, perhaps 
hatred, perhaps love. But some of the fires were burnt 
out, as though deep waters had quenched them. She had 
taken a liking to “the little American girl,” as she had 
called her, and had rejoiced when she had heard that she 
was coming to Lyndhurst permanently. She had seen 
the love growing up between the two, and she had been 
glad, for she liked Burford, and a good understanding 
had always existed between the two. At one time, Bur- 
ford had often strolled down to the vicarage for a chat, 
but during the last two years he had been very little at 
Lyndhurst. Verity began to talk brightly, but Mrs. 
Sinclair had seen the shadow on her face as she stood 
hesitating at the cross-roads, and she was filled with dis- 
quiet. Surely, surely these two could not have had a 
lover’s quarrel already? Verity’s eyes, as they met hers, 
were more wistful and sad than she knew. They had 
been so brimful of happiness and laughter. Oh! the pity 
of it, thought Lola Sinclair, who loved the beauty of the 
world, and its joy and laughter. 

Suddenly Verity found herself talking about the 
woman at the cottage and her little romance. Mrs. Sin- 
clair nodded. 

“That is Mrs. Sutton. I know her. Her husband — 
this second one,” said Mrs. Sinclair, as they walked along 
together, “is a most hardworking, decent man. He 
makes her a very good husband.” 

“And yet it was the first one she loved,” ejaculated 
Verity. “Was — was he very superior to the other?” 

“By no means, quite the reverse. He was a rackety 
young man. I think she would have rued marrying him 

311 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


if he had lived. He broke off the engagement with her 
once, and I twice saw her with a black eye in that first 
year, which she attributed to the corner of the chest of 
drawers. Strange how many wives black their eyes on 
chests of drawers !” She said it half sadly, half whim- 
sically. 

“How strange !” replied Verity. “This one is a 
much better man, and yet she doesn’t love him.” 

“Do you believe in the one man for the one woman 
business?” said Mrs. Sinclair, quickly, glancing at her 
thoughtful face. 

“I don’t know. I was just thinking. Oh! wouldn’t 
it be great to unravel the mystery of it all,” broke out 
Verity, passionately, forgetting her listener. “If one 
could only get hold of a clue!” 

“Then perhaps we shouldn’t love at all,” said the 
vicar’s wife, gently. The note of suffering in the girl’s 
voice went to her heart. She was nearly old enough to 
be this girl’s mother, and her heart was a large one. 
“My dear, don’t you think it is just as well that love is 
not to be solved like a problem in Euclid? It would lose 
all its fascination, all its charm, all its elusiveness. 
Suppose we saw our life enclosed in two straight lines 
stretching before us, do you think we could bear to tread 
the road? We are all childish enough to like puzzles. 
When I give one to my eldest boy he works at it all the 
time, and is profoundly interested in it till he finds out 
the key. Then the charm is gone. He no longer wants 
the toy. Love is a puzzle that is never solved, and don’t 
you think we ought to be thankful?” 

By this time they had come up to the vicarage gate. 
It was a pleasant, homely house, square and solid, with 
an air of comfortable family life about it. 

“Don’t you expect your husband back to dinner?” 
said Mrs. Sinclair. 

“No, not till the last train,” replied Verity, hearing 
a cheery shout of “Here’s mother!” from somewhere 
inside. 


312 


“I AIN’T HOPING FOR NOTHING” 


“Oh! but you can’t dine by yourself,” said the woman, 
hospitably. “That can’t be thought of. I can only offer 
you very simple fare, a leg of lamb, and fruit from the 
garden, but we should be very, very glad if you would 
take some with us.” 

The dark eyes were so friendly and the tone so hos- 
pitable that Verity said, simply, “May I? Are you sure 
you want me? I should like to come very much.” 

“Come,” said Mrs. Sinclair, opening the gate, “come 
in now. I am sure you don’t want to change that pretty 
white frock.” 

“I think I had better send a message up to the Hall 
to say I am not coming back to dinner,” Verity remarked 
a few minutes later, when she found herself inside a 
shady, pleasant drawing-room. 

“We will catch a small boy and send him up,” re- 
plied her hostess. “He will be charmed to earn an 
honest penny that way. Any one of them in the village 
will be your friend for life at the price of a ha’penny, 
and I have even made one or two stanch friends for the 
gift of a farthing!” 

Verity laughed, and as she did so the sound struck 
oddly on her own ears. How many days it was since she 
had laughed! It seemed ages ago. Her laugh trailed 
off abruptly. Mrs. Sinclair caught the look on her face. 
She longed to go up to her and ask her what the trouble 
was, for to her kindly heart the swift look of misery 
that had replaced the laugh was pitiful in the extreme. 
But she wisely did nothing of the kind; instead she went 
to the window to entrap a small boy. 

As it happened, one was just under the window, hav- 
ing come round from the kitchen regions. He was carry- 
ing something in a basin. 

“Oh! Jim, you are the very person I want. Have 
you been round to cook for the broth? Well, wait a 
minute and take a message up to the Hall. Will you 
write a line, Lady Rees? There is ink and paper on my 
writing-table,” 


313 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


The letter was written. 

“That was very lucky,” said Mrs. Sinclair. “Jim’s 
mother has just got her tenth baby, and he comes for 
broth. Talk about the falling birth-rate! Ten babies, 
the eldest only twelve, and the husband earns eighteen 
shillings a week.” 

“Heavens! Why that is only — let me see — about four 
dollars and a half ! Oh! Mrs. Sinclair, how do they do 
it?” 

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it? Sounds like the widow’s 
cruse of oil. And all the children are as healthy and 
strong as young puppies. . . . Now, Jim,” with her 
head out of the window, “don’t lose the note, and don’t 
drop it in the broth.” 

“No, mum. Will I take the broth first or the letter?” 

“Why, the broth, you silly child. You don’t want to 
carry the broth half a mile up to the Hall and back! It’s 
striking six o’clock, Lady Rees, so there’s plenty of 
time.” 

The Reverend Arthur came in with a roll of papers 
in his hand. 

“Lola, dear, will you read — Oh! I wasn’t aware ” 

For a moment he hesitated, for the room was care- 
fully shaded from the sun. 

“Arthur, you know Lady Rees? I met her on my 
walks abroad, and she is going to take some dinner 
with us.” 

For a moment his large mouth threatened to open 
with surprise, then, at a meaning look from his wife, he 
smiled. 

“That’s capital. How do you do, Lady Rees? I am 
very glad to see you. You are rather late, Lola. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I know; I lost the train and had to walk home. 
She turned to Verity. “It was the merest chance that I 
was walking that way. Twice a week I go over to a vil- 
lage called Harberton, about five miles from here. There 
is a little Home for Children there — rescued children — 
and I give them lessons in needlework, and teach them 

314 


“I AIN’T HOPING FOR NOTHING” 


simple little part-songs and musical drill.” Verity no- 
ticed that her husband was regarding Mrs. Sinclair with 
affectionate admiration as she talked. She had always 
considered the vicar a stupid, dull man, but in his own 
home he seemed different. There was a simplicity and 
kindness about him that had not showed to advantage, 
either in the pulpit or at Lyndhurst Hall. 

“I hope you haven’t overtired yourself,” he said, so- 
licitously. “It was a long, hot walk.” 

“I rather enjoyed it,” she said, quickly, “especially 
after I met Lady Rees. I lost the train by talking to 
Mrs. Roberts. She is in such trouble, Arthur. Her sis- 
ter is very ill. They fear it is a bad form of cancer. 
She is coming down to be nursed. . . . Now, Lady Rees, 
would you like to be amused or would you like to sit 
quite quietly? I have to go and see my small children 
into bed. Arthur will play to you, I am sure, if you 
would like it. When I am tired and fidgety, I always 
get him to play. He is so soothing and restful.” She 
put her hand on his shoulder with a gentle pressure. 

“I am not a virtuoso, Lady Rees—” began Mr. Sin- 
clair. 

“Virtuoso playing isn’t soothing, you silly man,” 
laughed Mrs. Sinclair. “Let me settle you with these 
cushions, and Arthur can play over in the corner. You 
needn’t even look at one another. . . . Beethoven, I 
think, dear.” 

Presently the room was filled with melody from the 
little piano. Verity was surprised that the Reverend 
Arthur could play as he did, for, though his technique 
was not extraordinary, he had the soul of a musician. 
She had thought him clumsy and uninteresting; his 
hands, she had noticed, were large, and not particularly 
well shaped. But those same hands caressed the keys of 
the piano as though they loved them, and he interpreted 
the music with subtle nuances of feeling and emotion. 
His playing was extremely restful, as his wife had said, 
and for nearly an hour he sat, without any self-conscious- 

315 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


ness, gliding from one sonata into another. In his sim- 
plicity he took it for granted that she was not bored, 
that she really meant what she said when she had told 
him that she cared for music. When Mrs. Sinclair came 
into the room, flushed with her exertions in helping to 
tub the babies, Verity’s face had lost a little of its hard 
restlessness and misery. 

It was nearly ten o’clock when Mr. Sinclair left her 
at the door of Lyndhurst. He had walked up with her, 
but he would not enter. 

The door was opened by the usual man-servant, who 
gave an exclamation at her appearance. He looked ex- 
cited and startled. 

‘‘Oh! my lady, we didn’t know — Sir Burford — ” he 
stammered. 

Verity looked at him in surprise. “What is the 
matter? You got my note?” 

“Note, my lady? We have had no note. And Sir 
Burford is awfully upset and ” 

The door of the library was flung open violently, and 
Burford strode into the hall. His face, through the tan, 
was a streaky white, and she saw that some strong emo- 
tion was gripping him. He looked at her, his face 
working, but for a moment he could not speak. The 
man discreetly retired. 

“What is the matter?” said Verity. “I don’t under- 
stand ” 

Then his anger burst out in a torrent of words. 
“What do you mean by giving me such a fright? 
Where have you been? Why did you behave like this? 
You might at least have the courtesy to leave some mes- 
sage when you go out for all this time. . . .” 

His anger was the result of suspense and fear, but she 
did not realize it. She stiffened at it, and spoke rather 
contemptuously. 

“I suppose I can stay out to dinner if I please. I am 
not a prisoner here, am I?” 

“I came down by the six o’clock train, to find that you 
316 


“I AIN’T HOPING FOR NOTHING” 

had been missing since luncheon. I have scoured all the 
grounds, I — ’ ’ He pulled at his collar as though it were 
tight, and she saw that he had not changed for dinner. 

“But why make all this fuss?” said Verity, with a 
shrug of her shoulders. “I sent up a note to say I was 
dining at the vicarage. Surely that was sufficient. Is 
it possible that ” 

“Who was sent with the note?” demanded Burford. 
“Is this true, or did you want to give me a fright?” 

“Do you accuse me of being a liar?” flashed out 
Verity, her face flaming scarlet. 

“I beg your pardon. . . . Who was sent with the 
note?” 

“A small boy that Mrs. Sinclair called Jim.” 

“I’ll wring his neck for him! . . . Why did you trust 
a note to a boy like that?” 

“I thought it would be all right. I— I am sorry 
there was a mishap. Did you wait dinner for me? I 
hope it was not spoiled.” 

He looked at her, and his eyes were somber and dark. 
His hair was dank and moist with perspiration. His 
collar had wilted, and altogether it was a very different 
Burford from the exceedingly well-groomed, spick and 
span man who usually stood before her. 

“I don’t know if it was spoiled. I didn’t eat any,” 
he said, shortly. 

He went to the wall and pressed a bell. “It was 
unfortunate that your letter miscarried. It would have 
saved me some hours of torture. . . . Bring me a brandy- 
and-soda, sharp. . . . I am just beginning to learn some 
of the hundred and one tortures a woman can put a 
man to.” 

“Do you still think I did it purposely?” 

“No. . . . But, for God’s sake, don’t do it again.” 

“What— what did you think had happened to me?” 

“When a man’s feelings are aroused, he doesn’t stop 
to think. But, anyway, it doesn’t matter to you what I 
felt or feared.” 


317 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


Suddenly the legend about the poor little bride, who 
afterward became a nun, and the husband who had 
thrown himself in the river, flashed across her mind. 
She had once or twice before recalled the story, which 
had such a curious resemblance to her own. With an al- 
most cruel desire to find out what he had feared, she 
probed him with a direct question. 

“Did you think I had thrown myself in the river?’ ’ 

He started, and she was answered. The man came up 
with the brandy-and-soda. Burford dashed a large 
quantity of the spirit into the tumbler, but his hand 
shook so that he could hardly hold the glass under the 
siphon. “Why should I imagine any woman would do 
such a fool trick as that?” he growled. “No — er — I 
thought you might have gone for a walk and lost your 
way, or — or sprained your ankle or something. Heavens, 
what a warm night it is! I’m simply boiling. You’ll 
excuse me if I take this into the library? I feel so jolly 
untidy I am not fit for you to look at. Good-night.” 

The library door closed behind him. He had dis- 
missed himself. 

Verity lay awake most of the night, thinking. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


A BRICK WALL 

After that night, the relations between Verity and 
her husband became even more strained. Burford ’s 
nerves were badly on edge, and he hardly trusted himself 
to speak when they did have to meet at meals. He sug- 
gested, with obvious eagerness, that they should ask the 
vicar and his wife up to dinner one night, and when they 
came Mrs. Sinclair’s suspicions were more than con- 
firmed. Burford was loquacious and unexpectedly silent 
by turns, and the warmth with which he asked them to 
come up again soon showed her the honeymoon had not 
been a success. That night, as she was brushing her 
long, black hair, she spoke to her husband, who was sit- 
ting beside her, watching the performance with his usual 
pleasure. He liked the sweep of the brush and the fall 
of the hair. 

“Arthur, there is something very wrong up at the 
Hall.” 

“Is there?” said the Reverend Arthur. “I think she 
is charming.” 

“Of course she is charming; that is why I say there 
is something wrong. If she were stupid and plain and 
impossible, I might have expected that state of affairs. 
I am sure Burford Rees could never pretend for very 
long: he is much too lazy and egotistical. . . . No,” 
brushing very vigorously, “I am sure he is in love with 
her.” 

“Why else should he have married her?” said her 
husband, simply. “I don’t wonder the Bible extols the 

319 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


beauty of a woman’s hair, Lola. . . . But, of course, he 
must love her.” 

Lola Sinclair stopped and looked at her husband for a 
moment. Then she bent forward and, holding his face 
between her hands, kissed him. 

“Didn’t it ever strike you, Simple Simon,” she said, 
softly, “that a man might marry a woman for her 
money?” 

“Not a real man,” said the Reverend Arthur, quietly, 
“only a cardboard man. And Burford Rees is a real 
man.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sinclair, thoughtfully, proceeding 
to plait the strands of hair, “he is. Only he’s been 
spoiled. He’s been an enfant gate with all the women, 
and it isn’t good for a man. Feminine sugar-plums are 
not good for any man’s digestion, not to mention his 
morals. I wonder. . . . I wonder!” 

“Of course, you are clever and notice things,” said 
her husband. “I don’t, but one thing did strike me as 
rather funny. After you and Lady Rees had gone into 
the drawing-room, we got speaking about the Hall. I 
asked him when he was going to start those alterations 
and repairs on the north wing — you remember just be- 
fore his marriage he talked to us about it, and promised 
to employ my cousin as his architect?” 

She nodded, and tied the plait with a ribbon. 

“Well, for a moment he didn’t answer. Then he 
said, in a rather abrupt way, that he didn’t propose to do 
anything to the Hall for the present, and added that he 
should probably let it later on.” 

Mrs. Sinclair’s big eyes gleamed. “Oh! Arthur, 
there is something very wrong. She was telling me at 
the same time how much she loved the place. And Sir 
Burford — he will hate it like poison seeing strangers 
there. What can have happened?” 

“Perhaps she wants him to go back with her to 
America to live?” suggested her husband. 

Mrs. Sinclair shook her head. “Isn’t it a pity? Oh, 
320 


A BRICK WALL 


isn’t it a pity! They’re wasting all the precious days, 
and youth is so soon gone. Youth is the time for love, 
and because of some stupid misunderstanding — probably 
— they’re making one another desperately unhappy. 
Yes, they’re both unhappy, Arthur. Her wistful eyes 
cut me to the heart. Once, during that evening she was 
here — when you said one of those nice, dear things you 
shouldn’t say before people, but you always do, and you 
put your arm round me — I saw such a look darken her 
eyes as I hope I shall never see on one of my girl’s faces. 
Because I have suffered myself, Arthur, I know the signs, 
and I wish — I wish I could help her. ’ ’ 

The Reverend Arthur put his arms very tenderly 
around her, and drew her to him. 

“And yet, my wife, some years ago, you didn’t be- 
lieve in happy marriages, did you?” 

She pressed her cheek against his. “Women who are 
unhappily married make themselves disbelieve. It helps 
to harden them. They daren’t dream of a happy mar- 
riage. If they let themselves think of it their lot would 
be unbearable. I did let myself think of it once, and — ” 
She stopped and shuddered. He held her closer. 

“Dearest, you are breaking the compact. I won’t 
have it. That was all buried long ago, and is not to be 
resurrected. . . . Come, let us go the rounds and then — 
to rest.” 

They went across the room together, and up the stairs 
to the nursery. Always, every night before they retired, 
they took a final look together at the sleeping children, 
to see that all was well. In the first room was the elder 
girl, nine years old, and in the one adjoining were the 
two boys, aged three and five. In the room with the 
nurse was the last arrival, a beautiful child, just over 
eighteen months old. The small Lola bade fair to be a 
replica of her mother, and as she lay fast asleep, her 
long black lashes shading her cheek, her black curls tum- 
bling over the pillow, she was a sight to make any 
mother happy. Mrs. Sinclair impulsively knelt beside 
22 321 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


the cot and dropped kisses on the little chubby hands. 
Some of the fire and passion of other days had come back 
momentarily to her eyes, which, when she rose from her 
knees, were dim with feeling. 

“My children, my little children !” she said. “Oh! 
Arthur, to think what my life might have been, but for 
you ” 

“That never could have happened,” he said, firmly. 
“Even if I had not been there, it could never have hap- 
pened. God would not have let you do it, Lola.” 

She looked at him with a great affection. “You 
were my God at that time, Arthur. You saved me.” 

“I was His instrument,” returned her husband, “His 
humble instrument. How could I, unaided, have saved 
you? A stupid, blundering ass like me! Do you think 
you would have listened to me if you hadn’t heard 
another voice speaking through mine? Would you ever 
have had any respect for my opinion?” 

“Yes, dear,” she said. “It was you. I shall never 
have your simple faith, Arthur, I shall never believe as 
you do. But you have taught me to believe in the tri- 
umph of love, both human and divine, and my children 
have done the rest. When I see my children sleeping 
around me, when I lean on your arm so steady, so faith- 
ful, I want to do something for other women. I feel so 
sorry for that young girl up at the Hall. At her age I 
was just as miserably unhappy as she is, but probably 
with far more cause. I want to smooth things out for 
her. But I can do nothing unless she confides in me, 
can I?” 

“I am afraid not. But she likes you, Lola, and per- 
haps later on she will give you the chance of helping 
her . 9 ’ 

“I hope so, I hope so,” said Lola, fervently. “I won- 
der — You don’t think Lady Margetson has been making 
mischief? She is still over at Dunmore End, and I heard 
yesterday that her husband is no better. ’ ’ 

“But she told me when I met her out riding, a week 
322 


A BRICK WALL 


or two ago, that she thought it was such a good thing 
for Sir Burford that he had married/ ’ 

“Oh! she doesn’t mind his marrying. But that kind 
of woman would mind his being in love with the woman 
he had married.” She caught her husband’s eye. “All 
right, Arthur, I won’t say that sort of thing if you don t 
like it, but you can’t understand a woman like Lady 
Margetson. I’m glad you can’t,” she added, quickly. 

“Lady Margetson gave me to understand that she 
hardly knew Lady Rees, that they had only met in a 
casual manner. She told me she hoped soon to be better 
acquainted with her.” 

“Oh, she’s a poisonous woman! I hope they won’t 
get better acquainted. She is a poisonous woman, 
Arthur. Why shouldn’t I say it? We admit that some 
plants are poisonous, and warn our children not to touch 
them; why shouldn’t people be poisonous? I should like 
to put a label on Lady Margetson. You’re a dear, sim- 
ple, clean-thinking darling. But there are poisonous 
men and poisonous women, and I say they ought to be 
labeled.” 

Dunmore End, where Lady Margetson lived, was 
situated some five miles from Lyndhurst, down in the 
hollow. It was a pretentiously handsome house, about 
twenty years old, and had been built by her husband 
soon after he was knighted. Its style of architecture 
could only be called the “showy.” Sir Thomas Marget- 
son was now well over seventy, and he was the wealthy 
owner of a large brewery. He had developed gout, and 
several other complaints, and was at the moment seri- 
ously ill in bed. To Lady Margetson’s intense annoy- 
ance, he had refused to allow her to go to Marienbad, 
and intimated that the duty of a wife was beside the 
bedside of her sick husband. She had coaxed and cajoled 
and finally stormed, but Sir Thomas refused to allow her 
to enjoy herself while he was in pain. He told her 
pretty plainly that some alterations would be made in his 
will if she did not give him at least outward respect and 

323 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


consideration. So, in very bad temper and bored to 
death, Lady Margetson languished at Dunmore End. All 
the neighbors, with the exception of the Reeses, were 
away, and she was anxiously waiting for a decent time to 
elapse before she could call at Lyndhurst. But on the 
Saturday following the Sinclairs’ talk together, she 
knew they were bound to meet. 

Lyndhurst Hall was always used on the second Satur- 
day in August for the annual flower show of the district, 
and usually some member of the Rees family managed to 
be present to dispense hospitality to the tenants, and 
those of the neighbors who still remained in the county. 
Lady Margetson intended to motor over to the show, al- 
though she had not graced it for years. She wanted to 
see Verity play hostess, and Burford support her as a 
radiant husband. 

Saturday, the morning of the show, dawned with all 
the signs of a glorious day, and from a very early hour 
there was a bustle and stir in the grounds, exhibits arriv- 
ing and being unpacked, marquees being erected, and all 
the usual fuss of a flower show. 

The show was regarded as the big event of the sum- 
mer, and all the people from various outlying villages 
and farms came in to view the flowers. Light refresh- 
ments, ale and cider, were provided by Sir Burford, 
while all the less humble visitors were taken up to the 
Hall to tea. A dinner-party always took place in the 
evening, when a small gathering of people who had 
driven some distance were entertained. 

Under Verity’s direction, and in accordance with her 
individual taste, the rooms had been decked with flowers, 
and but for the ache always at her poor, starved heart, 
Verity would have rejoiced in her role of hostess. The 
effect was charming, and even Burford noticed it. Like 
most men, he did not often notice details. 

“How nice you have made the old place look,” he 
said, meeting her in the hall with her arms full of del- 
phiniums. The little face above the mass of vivid blue 

324 


A BRICK WALL 


looked rather pale, but the eyes were brilliant, and 
seemed even more so than usual, because of the subdued 
tints of her face. 

“I am glad you like it,” said Verity, calmly. 

“You won’t let me help you?” he said, humbly. 

“Thank you, but there is nothing you can do.” 

“You have excellent taste, Verity.” He looked at 
her for a moment, then turned away abruptly. His self- 
control was getting rather threadbare. 

A few minutes later, as Verity was writing a letter in 
the library, she heard her husband’s voice speaking to 
some one. The window was wide open, and the speakers 
were evidently underneath, on the terrace. 

Burford was saying, “No, nothing can be done at 
present, Donald.” Donald Davidson was his agent and 
steward, and belonged to the yeoman farmer class. He 
occupied a farm on Burford’s property, and looked after 
all the details of the estate for him. 

“It’s a pity, Sir Burford,” she heard Donald’s heavier 
voice reply. “That north wing is getting in a very bad 
state. And if we get very heavy rains this autumn I am 
afraid the tower will collapse. It’s been wanting repair- 
ing for a longtime, as you know, and it’s urgent now. I 
had hoped that ” 

“I know,” said Burford, rather irritably. “But — 
well, it’s the old story, Donald, I haven’t the money.” 

“It’s a pity,” said Donald again, and from the pause 
before his reply Verity knew that he had been rather 
taken aback by Burford’s explanation. 

“Many things in this world are a pity,” replied Bur- 
ford, moodily. “But you can’t force your way through a 
brick wall unless you’ve got a battering-ram. I suppose 
money makes a battering-ram in some cases, but there 
are others where, if you used force, you’d only flatten 
out the person on the other side that you wanted to get 
at. Ever run your head up against a brick wall, eh?” 

“Not one I couldn’t get through. There’s always 
some way over or round,” said Donald, cheerfully. He 

325 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


was a man with a contented mind and an even temper. 
‘‘Yon don’t always fight with your fists. Sometimes you 
do it with feints and stratagems.” 

“Do you? I’m damned if I can see any feints or 
stratagems that would get through some brick walls. 
. . . I’d be awfully sorry to see the tower collapse. See 
if any kind of patching can be done, old man.” 

“We’ve been patching the place for a long time,” 
said Donald, with a sigh. He loved Lyndhurst almost as 
though he were its owner. 

“That’s true. Still, a patch in time — See what can be 
done. I’ll try and scrape up a little. Let’s go down and 
have a look at the big marquee. Been a good summer 
for flowers, hasn’t it? Looks as though there would be a 
nice show.” 

They moved away, and left Verity with the ink dried 
upon her pen. 

Later in the day she sent a message that she would 
like to speak to Burford in her boudoir. She was dress- 
ing for the flower show. It was very hot, and she had 
donned a simple dress of the finest muslin. Yet, in spite 
of its elaborate simplicity, it was a dress that only a 
young girl could wear, and on her head she had fastened 
a hat of the basket school, with some exquisite pale pink 
roses meandering around the crown. With a rope of 
pearls round her neck, and a couple of La France roses at 
her waist, she was the daintiest thing imaginable. So 
Burford thought, as he watched her draw on her white 
kid gloves. The skin of her neck and arms gleamed 
through the muslin alluringly, and it was all he could do 
to resist the impulse to take her in his arms and kiss it. 
But he only looked at her in silence. 

“You wanted me?” he said. 

“Yes, just a minute. Won’t — won’t you sit down?” 
For a moment she remembered bitterly the last time he 
had come into her room, when she had been a bride of 
only a few hours. But, manlike, he did not remember 
the coincidence; he was thinking only of how madden- 

326 


A BRICK WALL 


ingly sweet she was. She had turned her head half away 
from him, and the little tendrils of hair on her neck, the 
small, well-shaped ear — And as a man in the desert, 
parched, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth, 
may recall other days when he has tossed down a long 
tankard of cellar-cool ale, so Burford remembered the 
coolness of her skin against his lips, the fragrance of it, 
the velvetlike softness of its texture. 

‘Tm busy at the moment,” he said, in a rather rough 
voice, “will you tell me ?” 

She toyed with the roses nervously. “I — I sha’n’t 
know many people/’ she said, with the air of going off 
on to a sidetrack, “you must tell me what to do.” 

“I shall be near you,” he said. “England ex- 
pects ” 

“Thank you,” she said, hurriedly. Still she did not 
look at him. 

“Was that all?” asked Burford, rising and casting a 
glance at the daintiness of the room. He could see, 
through the half-open door, the snowy whiteness of the 
bed in the next room, the frilled, embroidered pillows 
with their bunches of pale blue ribbon, the silver of the 
dressing-table. 

“Er — no, not quite.” She turned toward him. 
“Please don’t go for a moment. . . . Burford, I acci- 
dentally overheard you and Donald speaking this morn- 
ing about the north wing. I remember you told me 
about it long ago. . . . I — I should like to see it 
repaired.” 

“So should I,” said her husband, grimly. “But I 
cannot afford the luxury at present.” 

“But — but I have plenty of money. I thought it was 
understood that I — that some of my fortune should be 
used — that — Burford, why do you look at me like that?” 

“Why do you remind me of things?” he said, his 
eyes darkening. “You might have the decency not to 
do that. You and I planned a good many things that — 
What you suggest, is quite out of the question. This 

327 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


house is mine, and I shall not touch a penny of your 
money for my use. Under the circumstances, I wonder 
that you should suggest such a thing. Do you think me 
such a worm, then? It’s true I’ve been all kinds of a 
fool in my time, and you have told me that I am a beast. 
But — now it seems you regard me as a worm, too.” 

Verity stiffened. “It is my home as well, now,” she 
said; “I don’t see that you need feel any compunction 
in my contributing ta its upkeep.” 

“Don’t you? Well, I do. You can think I married 
you for your fortune if you like. A good many people 
have said it, I have no doubt. But I repeat, not a penny 
— or should I say, a cent? — of your money shall be used 
on my house.” He set his mouth in a straight line. 

“It will be — well, inconvenient if the tower crashes 
down one night. It will also be a loss to the country, 
for I have been told that the tower is unique.” 

“Your rooms are not under the tower,” returned 
Burford, doggedly. “It is my room that is under it, 
and if I am hurt — well, you have no remnant of liking 
left for me, so your feelings cannot possibly be wounded. 
But there — possibly the tower will last your time. I 
think Donald was trying to frighten me.” 

“Last my time!” repeated Verity. She fingered the 
pearls with her restless fingers. 

“Yes. I suppose it will not be very long before you 
relieve yourself of me? Perhaps we had better reside 
under the same roof a little longer; but, no doubt, in 
your country, any jury would give you a divorce easily 
enough.” 

“Oh!” 

“It must be very irksome feeling yourself bound to a 
man you hate and despise. I will assist you in gaining 
your freedom in any way I can. Then — then you can 
find some man who is more worthy of you.” 

“You need not sneer,” retorted Verity, her cheeks 
flushing. 

“I am not sneering. I always told you I was not 
328 


A BRICK WALL 


worthy of you. Men tell women the truth sometimes, 
and they won’t believe it. Then, when a man is con- 
victed of telling the truth, he has to suffer. . . . Are 
you ready, Verity? I think we ought to go downstairs. 
I see a lot of people are arriving, and I hear the band. 
We must play the radiant bride and bridegroom. You 
will acquit me of any desire to annoy you or force my 
attentions on you if I pretend to be the gallant husband, 
won’t you?” 

Verity did not answer, but together they went down 
the stairs, out into the bedecked grounds. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


AN OLD FLAME 

With relief, and with the feeling that here was some 
one to whom she could cling, Verity saw the dark eyes of 
Mrs. Sinclair near one of the marquees. As the vicar’s 
wife, she was being amiable to some of the parishioners, 
who, though they found her a very ready and capable 
help in time of trouble, called her “a bit funny and sort 
of furrin’ like.” Sometimes they found her eyes uncom- 
fortably keen, and their flashes of spirit and quick scorn 
at some tale of meanness or cruelty were often referred 
to as “spittin’ fire like a cat.” But Verity felt that 
Mrs. Sinclair liked her, and, surrounded as she was by 
strangers, estranged from the man to whom she had 
given herself, she went toward her with the sense of 
going toward a friend. 

Mrs. Sinclair met her with frank admiration in her 
eyes. * ‘Perfectly charming,” she said. “What a de- 
lightful frock! I love white, especially when it is worn 
by young girls. Though you are the mistress of Lynd- 
hurst, you don’t mind my calling you a young girl?” 

Verity smiled. “Not a bit. Only— only sometimes I 
wish I wasn’t quite so young and— and inexperienced.” 

“Oh, my dear, don’t say that! The hours of youth 
are golden. I am nearly forty: my hours are getting 
silver. But there is no comparison between silver and 
gold. Don’t wish the golden hours away.” 

“No, I don’t know that I wish them away exactly, 
only ’ ’ 

“Only you would like to have the accumulated wis- 
330 


AN OLD FLAME 


dom of the ages as well as the joy of youth? When you 
have begun to amass some of that wisdom, dear, the 
hours are leaden.” 

“Are they? Only life sometimes gives you such big 
problems to solve when you have only learned the very 
easiest sums. Oh, well, I suppose one blunders on some- 
how. . . . Who is this coming up? Tell me, quickly.’’ 

Mrs. Sinclair supplied the necessary information, and 
Verity gave the newcomer a gracious smile of welcome. 

After that the people began to flock around her, and 
Verity found the only problem she had to solve was how 
to shake hands with the right degree of friendship. 
Even Mrs. Sinclair was surprised how well she played the 
part of hostess. She was dignified and gracious by 
turns; she never once exhibited any signs of awkward- 
ness or confusion, though it was an ordeal that many an 
older woman might have dreaded. Still on her honey- 
moon, she was eyed on all sides with inquisitiveness and 
minute attention. She was scrutinized from the top of 
her head to the sole of her foot. But, though she felt as 
if she were surrounded by a regiment of curious eyes, 
she gave no signs of her discomfort. Burford, on the 
contrary, was not so much at ease as usual. The con- 
versation between himself and Verity had freshly dis- 
turbed him, and to-day he did not find it congenial to 
play the good-natured country squire. But he stood by 
his wife’s side, and a little sulkily did what was required 
of him. 

One neighbor, old Mr. Welkin, of Welkin Hall, hob- 
bled up to Verity with the aid of his stick. 

“Eh, my dear,” he said, “I am glad to make your 
acquaintance. I’ve known your husband and your hus- 
band’s father and mother before him, and I gave Burford 
a good whacking once for stealing my apples. I believe 
in whacking children now and then. Spare the rod and 
spoil the child, eh, parson? Don’t ye bring up your 
children in this new-fangled way, with never a cane or 
an uplifted hand, Lady Rees.” 

331 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Have you seen the roses yet?” saidBurford, hastily. 

“No, but there’s plenty of time. Not that I came 
over to see the roses, I came over to see Lady Rees, and 
now I do see her I can’t think there’s a rose in the whole 
show will be half so nice to look at. You’re a lucky 
dog, Burford, ’pon my word, you are.” He waggled his 
head, with its silver hair and beard, at the pair of 
them. 

“Do you think I don’t know that?” said Burford, 
quietly. 

“Then you’re a wonder. We never know our good 
fortune till we’ve lost it,” replied Mr. Welkin. “That’s 
the way with all of us.” 

Verity winced a little; the old man spoke more truly 
than he knew. 

“But I like to see a nice, good-looking couple like 
you two. It’s young days yet, and maybe I’ll be bring- 
ing blushes to your cheek, Lady Rees, but I prophesy 
that there will be fine, upstanding children running 
about the Hall before long. Perhaps I’ll whack one of 
them myself. I will say that for your husband, he did 
take the whacking like a man; and in those days, though 
you may not believe it, my arm was pretty strong, and I 
laid it on a bit thick, for he’d been cheeking me, had 
Burford. Spare the rod and spoil the child. You 
remember my words, my dear. Oh! here comes Lady 
Margetson. I’ll be off.” 

He made a grimace of dislike and hobbled away over 
the lawn. To both of them it was a relief to hear Lady 
Margetson’s cool, rather flippant voice. 

“I am nearly dead with the heat. How do you do, 
Lady Rees? Ah! Burford, playing the proud bride- 
groom? Does he do it well, Lady Rees? We once made 
him act in some amateur theatricals, and he nearly 
spoiled the whole show. It was a small stage, and Bur- 
ford strode up and down it as though he were on the 
veldt. ... Ah! Mr. Sinclair, watching your flock by 
day?” 


332 


AN OLD FLAME 


‘‘How is your husband?’ ’ inquired the vicar, kindly. 

“Oh, about the same. Isn’t it tiresome? If people 
can’t get better, they might get worse. It’s so deadly 
monotonous being ‘about the same.’ ’’ 

She smiled at Mr. Sinclair maliciously; among her 
friends she so seldom had the chance of shocking any one. 
She thoroughly enjoyed the Reverend Arthur’s start. 

“I tell him that he really must decide what he is 
going to do, whether he is going to get well or whether 
he is going to that bourne from which no traveler re- 
turns. It’s silly to sit on the fence between earth and 
— heaven. Hasn’t it struck you as odd, Mr. Sinclair, 
that the people who thoroughly believe they are going to 
heaven when they die, are always so reluctant to knock 
at the door? I suppose it’s partly because you can’t take 
your traps with you. I know several women who would 
like to take their jewel cases — don’t you, Burford?’’ 

“The wages of sin are — jewels!’’ 

“Quite so. Wasn’t it Rochefoucauld who said, ‘Many 
an honest woman is tired of her trade?’ But isn’t it 
sickening that I have to stop here in the month of 
August? I never did such a thing in my life before. He 
doesn’t really want me: he only does it to annoy, because 
he knows it teases. Husbands are abominably selfish, 
Lady Rees. You’ll find that out later on. Burford has 
been awfully spoiled, too. We women have always been 
too nice to him.” She was looking at Verity with 
envious eyes. She had been made furious that morning 
at discovering several gray hairs in her tresses, and a 
close scrutiny in the strong morning light had apprised 
her of the fact that her youth was decidedly on the 
wane. For years she had burned the candle at both ends, 
and the effect was apparent: she looked at Verity’s 
smooth face, with never a line to mar it, and she was 
reminded unpleasantly that she could no longer wear such 
simple frocks and hats, that she had to “dress carefully” 
for the future. She hated Verity for her youth. “You 
must not spoil him, Lady Rees.” 

333 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“In America we are not brought up to spoil our men/’ 
said Verity, coolly, “but then we do not find men so indis- 
pensable to our happiness as some women seem to here.” 

The eyes of the two women crossed like swords. Lady 
Margetson gave a rather shrill laugh. 

“There, Burford,” she said, “she is already insinuat- 
ing that she could be quite happy without you.” 

“Women stay with us,” said the Reverend Arthur, 
“because they know that they make us happy. There 
are many women, I am sure, who could get on exceed- 
ingly well without us. But men could not get on for 
five minutes without women.” 

“Oh! there are heaps of women who pretend that 
they can get on without men,” said Lady Margetson, 
with a shrug of her shoulders. “But they are generally 
the ‘left overs’ or the ‘never has beens.’ I won’t pre- 
tend I can do without a man. Burford, will you take me 
and give me some tea? I am dying for some.” She 
took hold of his arm in a lightly possessive manner. 
Burford frowned slightly, and looked at Verity. “Oh! 
she doesn’t want you,” said Lady Margetson. ‘‘I am 
sure it’s time she had a change. Come along.” Just at 
that moment a man came over the grass with outstretched 
hand. It was Rex Patterson. 

An old friend! Verity held out her hand eagerly. 
And Rex Patterson’s pleasure in meeting her again was 
evident. 

Lady Margetson gave a low laugh, and gently pro- 
pelled Burford in the direction of the house. “I told 
you she didn’t want you. She’s had you all to herself 
for three weeks ! Think of it ! It’s funny to think of you 
as a married man. I never should have thought that 
legalized love-making would have appealed to you, 
Burford. Isn’t it rather tame— like shooting pheasants 
in a hen coop?” 

“I can assure you that my life at present is not in the 
least tame,” replied Burford, with an enigmatical smile. 

“A woman once told me you were a little difficile. 

334 


AN OLD FLAME 


. . . I have always wondered. . . . When you are tired 
of shooting pheasants in a hen coop — ” She looked at 
him provocatively, while her eyes narrowed. But Bur- 
ford returned her gaze quite coolly. His eyes took in 
the touched-up complexion, the carefully reddened lips, 
the deliberate deviltry of the eyes, and he thought of 
Verity’s fresh cool skin and pure eyes. Why did she 
make other women seem impossible; why, every time 
that he looked at her or thought of her, did she seem to 
convict him of crass folly, of asinine stupidity? 

“Burford,” said Lady Margetson, “I want you to get 
your wife to ask me to stop to dinner to-night. I had an 
awful scene with my husband before I left. I told him I 
couldn’t stand being here any longer. I don’t want to 
go back to dinner to-night. I may stay, mayn’t I?” 

What could the man do? How could he refuse a 
woman such a trifling request? He tried to temporize. 

“Don’t you think your husband will worry about 
you?” he said. 

She stared at him. “Good heavens, Burford! what 
has the little girl done to you? We hate one another 
like poison. He knows I want him to shuffle off this 
mortal, and he refuses to do it. Tiresome old beast! 
Old men are perfectly disgusting. What do they think 
we marry them for? Do they think we want to keep 
them alive for ever? Pooh! I saw myself a widow as I 
went up to the altar. I never thought he would last 
more than a few years. I thought — I thought, Bur- 
ford,” she said in a cooing voice, “that I should be a 
rich widow within a few years and then — You had to 
marry money, old boy, I know that. And I had to have 
money, too. Rotten bad luck, eh?” 

Burford was spared a reply by the advent of an ac- 
quaintance who came up to shake hands. 

Verity looked at Patterson and smiled. “Where have 
you come from? I thought you were somewhere up in 
the north of England?” 


335 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“1 was. I have been helping to nurse a constituency 
for a Labor member. I was in London for a few days 
and I remembered it was the day of the flower show. So 
I came down to get a glimpse of you.” 

“I am so glad to see you. Do you know, I feel as if 
I were surrounded by strangers. I have been smiling 
iqto such a lot of strange faces, and looking into such a 
lot of strange eyes. ’ ’ 

Patterson looked across the grass. 

Burford was crossing with Lady Margetson. 

“But your husband, you ” 

“Oh! on such an occasion he has to be busy,” she re- 
plied, hastily. “He knows all the people, you see.” She 
looked round thoughtfully at the bunches of men and 
women. “Do you know, it isn’t in the least like an 
American crowd.” 

“What is the difference?” asked Patterson. 

“It is difficult to explain, but the villagers don’t look 
so keen as our people. They all look like cabbages con- 
tent to rest where they are planted. This same class of 
person over in America looks — well, he doesn’t mean to 
rest content anywhere if he can get somewhere better. 
The men particularly have such a bovine, stupid look. 
I feel as if I should like to wake them up.” 

“That’s what I am trying to do,” her companion 
replied, quickly. “But once before when I tried to inter- 
est you, you were under the thrall of the feudal system. 
You found things as they are quite satisfactory. Is it 
possible that you have changed your views?” His eyes 
were uncomfortably penetrating. Verity laughed it off. 

“A woman never really changes her views, though she 
may appear to do so. . . . Come, let us have some tea. 
I am sure you must want it.” 

“The last time I was here you were a visitor only,” 
said Patterson, smiling. “Now you are the mistress of 
all you survey. You have foregone your American inde- 
pendence.” 

“No, I have not. My individuality has not changed an 


AN OLD FLAME 


iota because I have married.” There was a subtle note 
of defiance in her voice which puzzled Patterson. He 
found her changed, too, in some curious way difficult to 
define. And because she felt that he was watching her, 
she exerted herself to be her old merry self. 

Later on, toward six o’clock, they came face to face 
with Burford and Lady Margetson. Verity noticed that 
they were chatting in an apparently intimate manner. 
She could not know that her husband was bored with 
his companion, who had fastened herself upon him to 
relieve her own boredom. Because Burford did not 
respond easily to her rather daring conversation, she 
exerted herself to amuse him, retailing risque stories and 
tit-bits of spicy gossip. A man cannot very well shake 
off a woman who buttonholes him, and especially a 
woman to whom he has once made love. When Verity 
saw them, they were coming from the Nun’s Garden, 
which was not open to the public, and Lady Margetson 
was obviously ogling Burford. Patterson’s eyebrows 
went up a little. He glanced quickly at Verity, but she 
had stopped to bury her face in a deep, glowing red rose 
that nodded beside the path. 

As Lady Margetson saw the other pair advancing, she 
said, carelessly, “Don’t trouble to ask your wife about 
dinner to-night. I will go and throw myself on her 
mercy. ’ ’ 

Burford nodded, a little relieved. Was it his fancy 
that Verity looked very pale as she lifted her face from 
the red rose? 

“Are you not tiring yourself too much?” he said to 
her in a low voice. “After you have distributed the 
prizes you must go and rest.” 

“I am not tired,” said Verity, quietly. “You need 
not trouble about me.” 

“Quite an important role you are playing to-day,” 
said Lady Margetson. “But you Americans are used to 
quick changes, aren’t you? The home of one’s father’s 
business often makes one very stodgy,” Burford and 
23 337 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


Patterson were talking together. “Dear Lady Rees, it 
is so dull at Dunmore End. I threw myself on your hus- 
band^ mercy, and he says I may stay and have some din- 
ner. Will this disturb your arrangements?” 

For a fraction of a second something like anger 
gleamed in Verity’s eyes, then, with a nonchalant air 
that even Lady Margetson was forced to admire, she shut 
up her fluffy white parasol. “Not in the least. We 
shall be quite a large party for dinner. One more will 
not matter in the slightest.’’ 

“Thanks. A sick husband is such a bore. Don’t stay 
and nurse Burford when he is ill. I am sure his temper 
would be atrocious. Run away from a sick husband as 
you would a sinking ship. It is only foolhardy to re- 
main, because a husband who is ill gets to hate the sight 
of you, and probably rewards you by cutting you out of 
his will. Oh! there is Mr. Sinclair, Simple Sinclair, as I 
call him. I must go and talk to him. He’s so Noah’s 
Arky and primitive, thinks women are angels, and all 
that dull sort of rubbish. I amused a whole dinner-party 
once by retailing a conversation we had one day when I 
met him going up in the train. He believes so firmly in 
virtue with a capital V. It’s quite too amusing.” 

Verity was furious with her husband. She had heard 
a few hints regarding the love affair that had once ex- 
isted between Lady Margetson and her husband. That 
Burford should ajfficher himself with her all the afternoon, 
and invite her to stay to dinner without consulting her, 
or even observing the formality by which the invitation 
should come from the hostess, was enough to make any 
bride angry. If she had stopped to think, she might 
have known that Burford might be guilty of a breach of 
morality, but never one of etiquette; but an angry woman 
does not stop to think, and she was not in the mood to 
be just to him. She told herself that it was merely the 
bad taste of the proceeding that annoyed her. She cared 
nothing now where his love went. He could dance attend- 
ance on Lady Margetson if he chose. She told herself 

338 


AN OLD FLAME 


that that was the type of woman he really liked and 
understood. That kind of woman had been his world: 
she was and always had been an outsider. Heartless, 
artificial, neurotic — those were the women who really 
amused him. 

Burford crossed over to her. She looked up at him 
— she hated at the moment even his superior height that 
compelled her to do so — and her eyes were cold and glit- 
tering with wounded pride and anger. He thought she 
was annoyed that Lady Margetson had asked to be allowed 
to stay to dinner. 

“I couldn’t help it,” he said, under his breath. 

She laughed, a hard, scornful sound that made Rex 
Patterson look at her in surprise. Burford saw his in- 
voluntary astonishment, and resented it, as a man will 
from another man. 

“They are waiting for us in the tent to distribute the 
prizes,” he said. He offered her his arm. She hesitated 
for an instant. 

Then Burford said, in a low voice for her ear alone, 
“I must ask you to pay me a little outward respect in 
public. It will not be for long, but while we live under 
the same roof I do not wish to be the laughing-stock of 
the county. You elected that I should stay at your side: 
you must do your part. We are the cynosure of all eyes 
to-day. Don’t you think we had better pretend to be 
friends?” 

Silently, she placed her hand within his arm. It was 
the first time she had touched him since that day when 
her cup of happiness had been snatched from her. As 
she did so a momentary thrill shot through her, but she 
clenched her teeth and forced herself to stolidity. She 
told herself that she hated him the more because he still 
had the power to move her. In those weeks of the 
honeymoon, when they had conversed or been in the same 
room, there had always been a considerable space between 
them. She had carefully avoided his near proximity. 
But now she could not avoid it. As they turned to go 

339 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


down the steps, the warm nearness of his presence, the 
faint, manlike odor of tobacco that always clings round a 
male who smokes a good deal, the memories that rushed 
over her, made her falter and turn faint. She shut her 
eyes, and he slipped his arm round her. 

“My darling, what is it? Are you ” 

But, furious with herself and with her body that 
would not obey her spirit, she recovered herself imme- 
diately, and moved from the shelter of his arm. 

“Don’t! I am all right. It — it is the heat. . . 

They entered the tent to the sound of hearty cheering. 

“The bride and bridegroom — long life and happi- 
ness!” 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE DEVIL’S WIFE 

“The devil was sick, the devil a monk would be,” 
but it does not go on to particularize the state of mind 
of the devil’s wife. Lady Margetson was bored to tears 
at her husband’s ill-timed illness, and she clutched at 
Burford and any diversion that he might offer her. At 
first, she had had the idea of cajoling him into making 
love to her, and thus adding a little spice to the monot- 
ony of rural life, for it could not be said that she spent 
much time in her husband’s sick-room. When she did go 
to see him, in answer to his summons, her cool, critical 
eyes, watching the various stages of his illness, and its 
effects upon his outward person, only irritated him and 
made him worse. Angry at her lack of attention, he 
would now and then insist that she spend an hour or two 
in his room. But on those occasions he suffered more 
than she did. He was old and afraid of death. She was 
the only thing he had to cling to, and it was like resting 
your head on a bar of steel for warmth and comfort. He 
had realized his early ambitions of amassing a fortune, 
being knighted by his sovereign, and marrying a leader 
of so-called smart society; but still he was dying a lonely 
death. As he lay in his luxurious bedroom, surrounded 
by all that his wealth could buy, he stared up at the ceil- 
ing and remembered the days when, as a boy, he slept in 
a low ceilinged, dirty garret in an Edinburgh slum, and 
dreamed dreams of success that made his heart throb 
with excitement and sleep fly from his eyelids. All his 
dreams had, in a most unlikely manner, come true, yet — 

341 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


he was dying a lonely death. She had not even given 
him a child to bear his name. 

Lady Margetson did not quite realize that he was 
dying. It would have made but little difference to her 
conduct if she had. After the dinner at Lyndhurst she 
gave up the idea of ever getting Burford to make love to 
her again, for she was too clever to deceive herself or 
pursue vain shadows. He was the old Burford, and yet 
he was different. She was rather puzzled, for her sharp 
eyes had seen at once that all was not well between the 
honeymooners; yet Burford had not turned to her for 
amusement, as she would have expected. She and Verity 
had crossed swords in the polite modern manner more 
than once that evening, and she saw it was no good to try 
and edge her way into the house as the wife’s friend. 
But she made up her mind, with her usual disregard for 
other people’s feelings, that Burford had got to amuse 
her, reluctant or no. That he was obviously reluctant 
made the game more worth the playing. She played for 
no particular stake; like thousands of idle women, she 
merely played to pass the time. 

A few days after the flower show, Burford received a 
little note from her. It was carefully written in a frank 
spirit of camaraderie and friendship. In it she asked Bur- 
ford to give her the benefit of his advice in a small mat- 
ter in connection with the estate. “My husband is too 
ill, and I do not want to worry him. Only I am a little 
doubtful what I ought to do. You will know, I am sure. 
Will you ride over to lunch, perhaps to-morrow or the 
next day? I should be charmed to see your wife, too, 
only I am sure she would be bored by our business con- 
fab and the quietness of the house. But bring her 
if she cares to come.” She signed it, “Your old pal, 
Muriel.” 

Burford passed the invitation on to Verity, and, as he 
expected, it was refused. “Don’t trouble about me,” 
said Verity, coldly, “I will ask Mrs. Sinclair up to lunch 
with me.” 


342 


THE DEVIL’S WIFE 


“She asks my help, and her husband is ill. I can’t 
very well refuse, can I?’’ said Burford. 

“Why should you? It will be a pleasant ride.’’ He 
looked at her, but her face was expressionless. In those 
last few weeks, Verity had learned how to wear a mask. 

When he got over to Dunmore End, Lady Margetson 
met him with just the right mixture of palship and 
femininity. She gave him a most excellent luncheon and 
a bottle of wine that he thoroughly appreciated. When, 
over coffee and liqueurs (old Sir Thomas had some won- 
derful cognac) she consulted him on some question of 
right-of-way and the building of a new garage, he was in 
a most amiable mood, and did not detect that she knew 
as much about it as he did. As a matter of fact, a 
solicitor had already been consulted, and his report lay in 
her husband’s room. Then she tried, with many skilful 
questions, to pump him as to his relations with his wife, 
but Burford immediately shut up like an oyster, and no 
amount of caressing sympathy could extract any informa- 
tion from him. Having a mercenary mind, she came to 
the private conclusion that it was a money trouble, and 
that possibly Verity was keeping her bags of dollars tied 
up tightly. 

A few days later she met him out riding, and, as Bur- 
ford hated riding alone in his present mood, and Verity 
had declined his invitation to accompany him, they went 
for a gallop together. As luck would have it, Mr. Sin- 
clair, who was out bicycling, met them and innocently 
reported the fact when he returned home, and found 
Verity playing Badminton with the children in the vicar- 
age garden. Soon after, Burford received another invi- 
tation for luncheon from her, this time to help her decide 
on some hunters she had the opportunity of buying 
cheap, and as Verity had announced her intention of 
going on a picnic expedition with the Sinclair children to 
a neighboring ruin, he accepted it without saying any- 
thing to Verity. But she had recognized Lady Marget- 
son’ s handwriting, and when she heard he would be out 

343 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


to luncheon she did a little arithmetical sum, which 
added another drop to her bitterness. 

Mrs. Sinclair watched the girl, and she ached to com- 
fort her, but, as Verity did not give her her confidence, 
how could she do anything? And probably Verity would 
never have confided in her but for an accident, which 
filled her cup of misery to overflowing, and led to a reso- 
lution. 

The question of the hunters was soon dismissed — Bur- 
ford wondered that she could ever have entertained the 
idea of buying them (she had not), and then his hostess 
tempted him to linger with a new toy. Burford would 
not have been a man and a keen motorist if he had not 
been interested in the new car which had just been sent 
down, and which had been expressly built for Sir 
Thomas. It was a racing car, very light, and capable of 
breaking records in the way of speed. Burford looked 
and touched and tested it. Then Lady Margetson sug- 
gested a short spin to see how it ran. “We need not go 
far, and I do so want to try it. The chauffeur has gone 
away for his holidays, and the sight of it, idle and use- 
less, fidgets me. Come along, Burford.” 

She stepped into the car, and Burford was lost. He 
set the machine going, and guided it out of the garage. 
The thing leapt to his touch, and soon they were flying 
over the country roads. With his hands on the steering 
wheel, Burford forgot his companion entirely. She was 
non-existent. Presently, to his surprise, he found him- 
self in the next county, thirty miles from Dunmore End. 

“Why, is this Ettringham?” he said, slowing down. 
“I had no idea ” 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, carelessly. “Only I am 
dying for a cup of tea. Go through the High Street. 
We shall see a tea shop.” 

She refused to be hurried over tea, and messed about 
making purchases she did not want. She was maliciously 
pleased at keeping him chained to her side. It was half- 
past six when she got into the car again. 

344 


THE DEVIL’S WIFE 


Burford was anxious to get home, for they were both 
dining with the Sinclairs that night, and he knew he 
should be late. He put on speed, regardless of police 
traps. Whether he had not quite got control of the new 
machine, which was of slightly different construction 
to anything he had handled before, or whether there was 
a flaw in the machinery, could never be known; but half- 
an-hour later the machine was lying a total wreck at the 
bottom of a chalk-pit, and its two occupants, who had 
mercifully escaped death, were being treated in a labor- 
er’s cottage by a hastily summoned country doctor. In 
sliding over the side of the steep slope which gave on to 
the chalk-pit, the motor had tipped to one side, and Bur- 
ford and his companion had been flung down several feet 
on to some bushes and flinty stones. Had they remained 
in the car, they would undoubtedly have been smashed to 
pieces. 

Burford found that he had got off with a score of 
bruises and a cut on the head. Then he inquired for his 
companion. “How is she?” he said, jerking his head 
toward the other room. 

He had given his name to the doctor, who had read 
an account of his wedding recently. “Your wife has 
suffered more than you,” he said in a soothingly sympa- 
thetic manner. “I am afraid her jaw is broken.” 

“Good God!” cried Burford. “You don’t mean it. 
Oh! how horrible.” 

“We must get her back to Lyndhurst at once,” said 
the doctor, “nothing can be done here. I should advise 
your wiring for a specialist.” 

Then Burford had to explain. “She is not my wife. 
It is Lady Margetson, of Dunmore End. I — I was just 
taking her for a spin to try their new car.” 

The round, gooseberry eyes of the doctor opened in 
involuntary surprise, then he resumed his non-committal 
manner again. “Ah! risky thing trying new cars. 
That’s a nasty hill, too, very nasty. Many accidents. 
Don’t wonder at it. Dear! dear! Very unfortunate,” 

345 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


Lady Margetson’s jaw was badly broken, and she was 
conveyed home to Dunmore End. 

The affair was a tit-bit of scandal that was seized on 
with avidity. The story was soon circulated all over the 
county, and veiled allusion to it crept into the society 
papers for all and sundry to read. People laughed or 
sneered, according to their temperament. Women were 
intensely interested to know if Lady Margetson would be 
disfigured for life, and what the new Lady Rees thought 
about it. A few considered the accident in very bad 
taste, and one or two, including Rex Patterson, cursed 
Burford for a fool. 

But they did not curse him a quarter as much as he 
cursed himself. He knew his last chance had gone. 

The evening after the accident, Verity announced, in 
a short interview, her intention of soon returning to New 
York, and, if possible, obtaining a divorce. Burford 
had suggested it to her himself, so he could only ac- 
quiesce. Her calm was deceptive: he thought she felt 
no emotion about it, and was glad to get rid of him. 
She had hated and despised him ever since the wedding- 
day. He did not know that she had been softening a lit- 
tle to him before the advent of Lady Margetson, that her 
loneliness and the craving of her youth for love and hap- 
piness had blunted the first edge of her trouble. But, as 
Pharaoh of old hardened his heart, so Verity now hard- 
ened hers, and resolved to end the farce of her English 
marriage. She even cynically remembered that she had 
at least secured the fortune to herself and her mother. 
She tried to make herself believe that Burford had served 
his turn. 

After delivering her decision to Burford, she saun- 
tered out into the open air, for restlessness had taken 
possession of her limbs. She hardly noticed where she 
was wandering, but presently she became aware of the 
sonorous strains of an organ. She stopped and looked 
around her. Tall shafts of light lit the road before her. 
They came from the high, narrow church windows. She 

346 


THE DEVIL’S WIFE 


had wandered into the village. She knew that it must 
be Mrs. Sinclair who was playing, for she always took the 
weekly choir practice, and sometimes lingered on in the 
quiet church to play. Both she and her husband were 
musical, which accounted for the unusual efficiency of the 
choir. Verity stole up the dark path through the church- 
yard, past the cold, white tombstones, keeping their 
eternal vigil over the bodies that had once walked up 
that same path. To-night Verity did not think of the 
dead. The churchyard was full of the sweet odor of 
damp earth — it had been raining — and of that nocturnal 
bloomer, the tobacco plant; but Verity, for once, did not 
heed. She pushed open the heavy door, and entered the 
building. In the half light, for the church was not fully 
illumined, the monuments to the dead and gone Reeses 
were formless and mysterious. A strong light burned in 
the organ loft. 

The music stopped as Verity entered. She thought 
Mrs. Sinclair had finished. Then, after a long pause, 
the strains of Mendelssohn’s “0 rest in the Lord” 
vibrated through the old building. At that hour of the 
night, in the dim light and solitude of the place, the 
music, even without the words, brought their message. 
The hard tension around the girl’s heart relaxed. Her 
throat swelled, and presently she began to sob with her head 
on the front of the pew. The last notes died away, but 
a choked sob from Verity arrested the player’s attention. 

“Who is there?” she called, looking over the loft. 

She could not see who it was, and Verity did not 
answer, but she quickly came down the narrow, winding 
stairs. 

“Verity! My dear child, what is wrong?” 

She had heard the gossip about the accident, but she 
hoped Verity had not placed any particular significance 
upon it. 

“My dear, she is a poisonous woman, though my hus- 
band will not let me say so. Burford did not mean it as 
a slight to you, of that I am sure.” 

347 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“It doesn’t matter,” said Verity, drearily, “it is 
the last straw.” 

Then, bit by bit, she told Mrs. Sinclair the story. It 
somehow seemed possible to tell it in the darkened 
church. It was almost like a confessional. Mrs. Sin- 
clair was rather appalled, for she had never suspected 
there was such serious trouble. 

“I am going to divorce him,” said Verity at last, in 
a hard, dry voice. “He has amply deserved it. Men do 
not treat women so in America. ’ ’ 

“Oh! don’t do anything in a hurry,” said Mrs. Sin- 
clair, holding the girl’s cold hands firmly between her 
own. “Yes, I do know what a shock it must have been, 
a shock that might have bowled over a much older 
woman. But, Verity, have you no love at all left in your 
heart for him? Not a particle?” 

Verity shook her head with set lips. 

“There are many worse men, Verity.” 

“There are many better,” retorted Verity. 

Mrs. Sinclair was silent for a minute. “Perhaps be- 
cause I am such a sinner myself, I understand him,” she 
said. “After all, a man’s life before his marriage has 
nothing to do with his wife. She has no right to take 
him to task for it.” 

“He knew this divorce case was pending, and yet he 
let me marry him,” exclaimed Verity. 

“That I very much doubt. In fact, I go further, I do 
not believe it. That would be a most dishonorable thing 
to do, too despicable for words, and that is not Burford 
Rees. Oh! no, Verity, Burford is very human, very care- 
less, we will say non-moral, if you like, but I have never 
known him do anything in the least degree dishonorable 
or mean. Verity, you have only to look at him to know 
that. ’ ’ 

But Verity shook her head. “The person who wrote the 
letter knew what he was talking about. Everything came 
true. Perhaps he thought he could stop the proceedings, 
as he did do afterward, but he must have known.” 

348 


THE DEVIL’S WIFE 


“What sort of a woman was she?” 

“I don’t know. Burford said she was a — a noth- 
ing ” 

“Ah!” 

“Men are disgusting creatures. I hate them. They 
are all sensualists, and think only of the physical side of 
love.” Then, because the physical side of her own na- 
ture had been asserting itself during the last few weeks, 
and she resented it, she added, with intense bitterness, 
“No man is worth loving. The women who love their 
husbands only blind themselves and won’t face facts. 
When a woman faces these facts she must revolt against 
love. Love!” She gave a hard laugh. “Love means 
something very different to a woman from what it does 
to a man. A woman does not give herself over to her 
lower appetites like a man.” 

“Does she not?” said Mrs. Sinclair, quietly. “Would 
you be surprised to hear that I once gave myself over to 
my lower appetites, as you call it, and was only saved by 
a man ? Listen, Verity. I never thought to tell any one 
this story, because it lies between my husband and my- 
self, but I want to tell you because I think you don’t 
quite realize some things. Perhaps I didn’t at your age. 
I don’t want you to think that women are so angelic and 
always love differently from men. They often love in 
exactly the same way, only women are taught to control 
themselves. They have reason to fear the consequences 
of their indiscretions, and they are sometimes prevented 
by a certain fastidiousness and pride, which often stand 
a woman in as good stead as her morals.” 

“This woman was a — a nothing .” ' 

“Yes. Men are not so fastidious as women. They 
would never do half they do if they were. The early 
training of boys does not make for fastidiousness in 
England. But listen to my story. Mr. Sinclair is my 
second husband. My first marriage was a most unhappy 
one. He was a drunkard and a profligate. ... I sepa- 
rated from him, but I could not divorce him. I thought 

349 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


I was strong enough to live alone, and that I was dis- 
gusted at a certain aspect of life. My husband had been 
a liberal education. . . . Then I grew bored and lonely. 
... I became reckless, and my woman’s nature called 
out for food. ... I met a man whose attraction for me 
was entirely physical, and I knew it. I never deceived 
myself. He was good-looking. I heard him described 
once as ‘a fine, sleek animal.’ That was all he was. 
But when he made love to me, I wanted to respond to 
him. His touch thrilled me, his presence in the room 
gave me a sense of suffocation. Deep down, I wanted to 
resist him. I knew it was what the catechism calls 
‘fleshly lust’ ; I knew he didn’t really care for me; I knew 
it was a dangerous thing to do. I had arranged to go 
away for a holiday with him, and in intention the thing 
was done. . . . Mr. Sinclair was a curate in the neigh- 
borhood where 1 lived, and he told me afterward that he 
had always loved me, though he never by word or look 
gave me any hint of it. By a strange accident, he found 
out what I was going to do. Very shamefacedly, very 
apologetically, but very earnestly, he came to me and did 
what very few men would have had the courage to do, for 
we are all cowardly about such matters, and usually let 
people go their ain gait for fear of seeming interfering 
and officious. I tried to deny it. ... I laughed and 
jeered . . . but he stuck to his guns, though his poor 
face was scarlet and he stammered horribly in his agita- 
tion. He made out that I was worth saving, that it was 
only a mad impulse. . . . Because he believed in my 
honor and purity, and because he was so honest and up- 
right, I gave way. I was ashamed. I sent my lover to 
the rightabout.” 

‘‘You could never have done it.” 

‘‘Oh! yes, I could, if Arthur had not said ‘stay/ . . . 
Probably you and a lot of people — I see it in their faces 
— think my husband stupid and slow in his simplicity, 
but if they only knew his real worth! It didn’t affect 
his love for me, and when my husband died shortly after- 

350 


THE DEVIL’S WIFE 


ward he asked me to be his wife. For a long time I 
said ‘No/ out of very shame; but do you know, that 
never once since that night when he argued and pleaded 
with me, has he ever referred to it, or, I am sure, ever 
thought of it as a blot on my character. If I told him 
to-morrow that I was going up to town for a week for a 
change, he would let me go without an instant’s hesita- 
tion. Men do sometimes forgive women their mistakes, 
but very few cease to reckon them up against them. His 
respect for me has never once wavered, in spite of his 
knowing that in intention I gave myself to that man. 
If you forgave Burford a hundred times over it would 
never mean what my husband has done, so that when I 
hear women run down men I feel I must tell them what 
one man at least has done.” 

“Burford would never have forgiven or understood,” 
said Verity, shrewdly. In spite of her inexperience, her 
penetration told her that. 

“No, I don’t think he would. Arthur has an ineradi- 
cable belief in human nature, and the preponderance of 
the divine over the animal. I see all the nasty little 
things that he never notices. Often our eyes are far too 
sharp for the peccadilloes of others. I know I usually 
see the bad side of things. Arthur shames me so that I 
don’t speak about what I see. But I don’t want to talk 
about my husband, God bless him. . . . One day you 
said to me, ‘You are so fine and strong, there is nothing 
weak about you.’ I wanted to tell you then. . . . You 
trust me, we are friends, are we not? And you would 
never have dreamed that I was capable of doing the sort 
of things that you say men do. A man like your hus- 
band has never been taught to deny himself anything, 
and women have always found him very attractive. It 
takes a strong man to withstand a weak woman. I often 
wonder that men come out of it all as well as they do, 
considering how they are tempted.” 

‘ ‘You are trying to defend Burford, ” exclaimed Verity, 
looking round at the shadowy monuments to his ancestors. 

351 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

“No, I am not,” said Mrs. Sinclair, slowly. “I do not 
hold a brief for men. One of them made me suffer very 
deeply. I just want you to think a little more, dear, be- 
fore you do anything irrevocable. If your love is quite 
dead, then bury the corpse, and if according to your 
American laws you can get free, marry again. But if it 
is not dead, Verity, if you deliberately stifle the life in 
it because you cannot bring yourself to forgive. . . . 
Oh, my dear child, you may regret so bitterly. I like 
you both so much that I want to see you happy. ... I 
feel certain that he did not know that case was pending 
when he married you — wouldn’t he have stopped it be- 
fore and not taken the risk? — and as for this little es- 
capade with Lady Margetson — all men are flies to be 
attracted, and only the very wary can escape her net. 
Those are the women who frequently break the best men. 
And consider. Don’t you think he has been kicking 
himself pretty hard for his folly and for the unhappiness 
he has caused you? Don’t you think that his life has been 
pretty unbearable lately? I believe he is strong enough 
to take his beating without flinching, but he must kill 
the time somehow, that he hoped to spend so happily 
with you. Probably, she coaxed him over to Dunmore 
End on various pretexts, and she is an old friend of the 
family. Weigh it all carefully, Verity, and see if you 
can’t throw in on one side a big lump of forgiveness, for 
— my dear, don’t think I am trying to preach — but it is 
more blessed to forgive than to mete out justice. My 
husband would say that we shall all have to ask for for- 
giveness in the next world, but I don’t know about that. 
It seems to me that, if there is a God, He is so all-un- 
derstanding that we shall not need to ask forgiveness. 
Arthur’s forgiveness here makes me and our children 
and who knows how many people happy in this, and that 
is good enough for me. Verity,” she whispered, draw- 
ing the girl to her, “if you still care only a little, don’t 
throw everything away. You may have children sent to 
you, dear little children to call you mother, and then the 
352 


THE DEVIL’S WIFE 

last remnant of your resentment would vanish. The man 

you love at your side; the child in your arms ” 

“I can’t, I can’t,” cried Verity, physically shutting 
her eyes as though to blot out the vision. “No, no, I 
can’t. He doesn’t deserve it.” 

Mrs. Sinclair sighed as she rose, and went to extin- 
guish the lights in the organ loft. “My dear, our des- 
erts are so small, that God forbid we should ever have to 
live on them.” 


24 


CHAPTER XXXI 


“is it good-by V* 

In the second week in September, it had been arranged 
that Verity and her husband should go up north to Dur- 
riemuir, the Finboroughs’ Scotch shooting-box, for the 
grouse shooting and fishing. It was to be a very quiet 
and familyish party this year, owing to the death of 
Lord Finborough; but all the same a good many people 
were to assemble, and among them, Philippa. Verity 
would have looked forward eagerly to seeing her again 
had it not been for her wretched secret. She distrusted 
her histrionic powers, and though in a way to be with a 
gathering of people would be a relief from the tete-a-tete 
existence with Burford, yet to have to chatter and laugh 
and behave like a perfectly contented and normal bride 
held out the prospects of a refined torture. At first, she 
thought of letting Burford go alone and doing away with 
irritating pretences; but then every one, including her 
mother, would raise startled eyebrows and overwhelm 
her with questions which she felt she could not stand at 
the moment. The farce must go on a little longer. 

Burford that morning had silently passed over a let- 
ter from his sister, in which she said: “We are all look- 
ing forward to seeing you next week. Behold Lothario 
chained, and clothed in the sheep's clothing of the mar- 
ried man! Has the golden-eyed Dryad assumed any 
matronly plumage? Evangeline already looks like the 
mother of a large and healthy family, and settles her 
skirts when she sits down like a well-conducted hen fold- 
ing her wings over her chicks. It is to be hoped that 

354 


“IS IT GOOD-BY?” 


God will fill her quiver full, for I want to see an heir 
arrive upon the scene. Charles is not over-strong, but 
he seems to be settling down nicely. As I told him long 
ago, getting married is like having a tooth out, worry- 
ing in anticipation, painful at the moment, but you feel 
so comfortable when it is all over. Besides, the Bible 
strongly commends matrimony. There’s one thing, 
Evangeline has no romantic notions. She only looks for 
the ‘middling’ in life. No tops or bottoms for her. 
She and your little American are poles asunder. Mind 
you behave nicely to her. . . . Let us know what day 
you arrive. Charles says the grouse are in splendid con- 
dition. He had a record bag yesterday. ...” 

There was a question in Burford’s eyes as she handed 
the letter back to him, but she did not reply to it. She 
wanted to think it out. She hardly seemed to glance at 
him as she passed out of the hall, but, womanlike, in 
that half -glance she had taken in the fact that he looked 
very haggard and rather ill. His fall out of the car had 
shaken his heavy frame rather considerably, and alto- 
gether his appearance was strangely abject and miserable 
for the man he had been. His debonair, devil-may-care, 
unruffled manner had vanished. For the first time in his 
life, he was thoroughly dissatisfied with himself and 
with life. The strain, too, of her continual presence in 
the house, of frustrated passion and thwarted hopes, 
of unavailing regret and real regard for her pain, had 
been greater than he realized. Every day he said to 
himself, savagely, that he must end it, that he could not 
bear to live in such a relationship with her, that he must 
get away from Lyndhurst. Yet he took no action. Some- 
how, in spite of the fact that her presence was torture 
to him, that she was miles away from him, he did not 
want to lose sight of her. He did not hug his unhappi- 
ness to him with melancholy pleasure, as a poet might 
have done; he hated his own uncomfortable feelings, and 
certainly was in no mood to echo “’Tis better to have 
loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.” That to 

355 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


him was pure rubbish. He did not understand his own 
feelings for Verity, all he knew was that he loved her to 
distraction. Yet love had come in such a way that it set 
all his nerves on edge, so that he felt as if some one were 
playing with careless, ruthless fingers on the raw edge 
of some inward wound. Love had really come to Bur- 
ford Rees, and, as he expressed it day after day, it was 
“damned uncomfortable.” 

And the bitter-sweet pleasure of depreciating the un- 
attainable object we have desired and coveted was not 
even his as solace. Her pride appealed to him irresisti- 
bly, her pluck in bearing her trouble alone — and she was 
almost a child — her dignity under her suffering and her 
awkward position, made him love and admire her more 
than ever, so that all vestiges of condescension in his 
affection for her — and most men in all stations uncon- 
sciously “stoop” to a woman — were worn away. “The 
littlest thing” that he had laughingly said he could break 
with one hand, had shown big qualities of heart and 
brain and breeding, that commanded his respect. When 
she walked away from him, with her small head held well 
in the air, he desired her more than ever; when her lips 
answered in cold monosyllables or polite nothings, he 
longed to crush them with his kisses. Sometimes in the 
night he was tempted to break into her room and beg her 
to take pity on him, but he knew that any shadow of a 
chance still remaining would be gone. She despised him 
now, but she would despise him still more if he lost con- 
trol of himself. Like a schoolboy stuck in the corner — 
quite justly — he knew he must bear it, at least without 
any outward signs of flinching. There is a time when a 
woman rejoices in a man’s weakness, especially if she is 
the cause of it, when she glories in answering his appeal, 
but this was not the time. 

In those hours that elapsed before Verity let fall a 
few words intimating that the arrangements for their 
visit to Durriemuir were not to be canceled, Burford 
lived in a little special Hades of his own. If she decided 

356 


“IS IT GOOD-BY?” 


not to go the fat would be in the fire, and there would 
be a nice blaze. Knowing what he did of American 
women, he was sure that Philippa would urge on the 
divorce, that she would never take the English mother’s 
forgiving and overlooking attitude to such peccadilloes. 
American women did not accept a husband for ever and 
aye, with all his faults and failings, to be cheerfully and 
uncomplainingly borne till she should lay him under a 
eulogistic epitaph. 

Verity noticed the look of relief that passed over his 
face, as she asked, “May I have one of the cars to go up 
to town to-morrow? I want to get a few things for our 
visit. I had no time before we — before we came down 
here.” 

“Yes, of course. . . . Why do you ask?” 

“The cars are yours.” 

“They are yours, too,” he answered, quickly. 

She shook her head. “You told me that the house 
and all that is therein was yours when I asked to be 
allowed to repair the tower.” 

“That was different. . . . Don’t you see that that 
was different? Don’t shake your head. Be fair to me, 
Verity. It is not like you to hit below the belt. I can’t 
accept money from you under — under the present con- 
ditions.” 

“I don’t see why not,” said Verity, obstinately, set- 
ting her mouth in that little straight line he dreaded, 
and which was so foreign to the young, fresh lips. “It 
seems criminal to me to let an historic old place go to 
ruin for want of a little money.” 

“You mean that you would be doing a service to the 
nation, not to me?” he said, meeting her gaze with his 
own. 

She was looking very trim and fresh in a little linen 
frock. She tapped restlessly on the floor of the Hall 
with her small, brown shoe. She looked such a mere 
child,, yet this was the woman that defied and resisted 
him. 


357 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


‘Tut it that way if you like,” she said, picking up 
her book. 

“Well, Lyndhurst does not belong to the nation, nor 
is it a peep-show. It’s my home — our home — and money 
that you spend on it you give to me. I can’t accept any 
money from you, even to satisfy your desire to benefit 
humanity. And, Verity, you know that I can’t.” 

Just then the sound of the church bell interrupted the 
conversation. It was not the usual peal; it was tolling 
for the dead. The sound came in at the open door, 
checking their heat, for both were getting rather excited 
and bitter. It drowned the song of the birds, the hum 
of the bees, the rustling of the trees. The hush of death 
seemed to fall upon everything. They listened for a 
minute in silence, and something that was of the world, 
the flesh, and the devil, died away from their eyes. 

“I wonder who that is for?” said Burford at length. 
One of the servants was passing through the hall. 

“Willis, do you know who the bell is being tolled 
for?” 

“For Sir Thomas Margetson, I believe, sir. He died 
this morning early.” 

It was the first time the name of Margetson had been 
mentioned between them since the motor accident. 
Verity turned, and went slowly out into the sunlight. 
She wanted to feel its warmth and life. She had instantly 
remembered that Lady Margetson was now a widow. 
When — when she had divorced Burford and set him free, 
he could marry her. And as she passed along the terrace 
where a peacock was preening himself in the sunshine, 
the epitome of human vanity, the bell tolled on monoto- 
nously with a dreary and solemn insistence on the fact 
that with our loves and our hates our sins and our vir- 
tues our follies and our repentances “we are but dust.” 

The next day when up in town she came across Ada 
Patterson most unbecomingly clothed in purple and green 
garments, which displayed both her convictions and her 
lack of beauty. She was selling “Votes for Women” at 

358 


“IS IT GOOD-BY?” 


a street-corner, and the wind had blown her hair in 
untidy wisps about her face. Verity stopped the car and 
spoke to her. 

“You look so hot and tired. Do come and have some 
lunch with me.” 

Ada shook her head. “I’m on duty here till three. 
Then I’m going to the meeting at the Caxton Hall. I 
suppose it’s no good asking you to come? You never 
were really converted, and I suppose now you’re married 
you’re gone over entirely to the enemy.” There was a 
sharp note of envy in her voice, which Verity did not 
remark. 

To Ada’s surprise, Verity flushed and hesitated. She 
looked at a poster Ada was displaying — “Should Women 
Forgive Men?” Suddenly it occurred to her that she 
ought to be more in agreement with the women’s move- 
ment now. These women were banded together to over- 
throw man’s tyranny, and to teach and help their own sex 
not to pander to him. Yes, probably she would under- 
stand their queer, emphatic speeches, their tirades against 
men, better now. She promised Ada that she would go 
to the meeting for a little while. 

“Let me buy all those papers and set you free,” she 
said. 

Ada refused the offer. “You can give us a donation 
this afternoon if you like, but if I sold these to you, you 
would throw them away where they would never be seen. 
With every copy I sell, I hope to arouse some man or 
woman to a sense of the injustice done to us.” 

She thrust a copy under the nose of a man who was 
looking at Verity’s pretty face, framed in the window of 
the car. He noticed Ada and her papers as little as a 

fly. 

When Verity arrived at the hall, she found it very 
hot, and very full of women. It was exactly the same 
sort of crowd she had seen at previous meetings. Most 
of the women were already converted, and the few stray 
men who were to be seen were of that nondescript type 

359 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


which Verity never saw elsewhere. Ada, spying her, 
put her in charge of such a one. He was amiable and 
polite, but Verity could not bring herself to remember 
that he was a man at all. He had a pale face and a 
bumpy forehead, and his clothes seemed much too large 
for him. He belonged to the Men’s Suffrage Society, 
and Ada whispered in her ear that he was a splendid 
speaker. As Verity stole a glance at him — he was going 
through some notes on a piece of paper — the image of 
Burford obtruded itself — big, broad-shouldered, and ex- 
ceedingly virile and human. Then Verity shook herself. 
It was such men as Burford that had oppressed women 
for so long, who made light of the suffrage movement, 
and refused women their independence. 

Verity determined to let all her sympathies go forth 
with these women. She listened to the speeches, and 
nodded her head vigorously when other women applauded. 
Most of the speaking was very good, for women have 
progressed enormously in the art of public speaking since 
the suffrage movement commenced. Then Verity found 
herself nodding only half-heartedly, then not at all. Her 
critical self was awake. She had confidently expected to 
revel in the diatribes against men, in the denunciation 
of their vices and wickednesses, in the wholesale con- 
demnation of the sex. And then Verity found herself 
repeating — a self that she did not mean to bring to 
the meeting — “one-sided,” “prejudiced,” “ignorant,” 
“ridiculous.” The mean-souled petty tyrants that these 
women depicted she did not know. Burford was a 
beast, but he was not a mean beast. These men who 
spoke and were presumably redeemed males, shorn of 
their wicked, tyrannous ways — she did not want them. 
They could never interest her. As she looked round at 
the women who loudly applauded and punched the floor 
with the ferrules of their sunshades, she seemed to hear 
in their plaudits not a desire for the vote, but an unsat- 
isfied craving for the outlet of their woman’s nature, for 
a man’s love and protection, for the hope of children. If 

360 


“IS IT GOOD-BY?” 


a man like Burford, with all his failings, were offered to 
them, would they spurn him? 

She said good-by to the man with the bumpy fore- 
head, who was getting nervous, as his time for speaking 
was approaching, and quietly glided out of the hall. 
Although she had a grievance against a man, she was not 
with these women: there was evidently no consolation for 
her in the suffrage struggle. 

The night before she left Lyndhurst — perhaps for- 
ever, she told herself, half fearfully, half defiantly — she 
went down to the vicarage to say good-by to Mrs. Sin- 
clair. Mr. Sinclair, who was in his study, trying to 
teach a backward village boy some simple arithmetic 
that would insure him a humble situation, told her that 
she was upstairs in the nursery. She heard Mrs. Sin- 
clair’s voice as she ascended the stairs. 

“Do you mind coming in the nursery, Lady Rees? 
It is nurse’s day out, and we are having the nightly 
scrubbings.” Mrs. Sinclair, with her hands in the bath 
water, looked up with happy, motherly eyes from the tub 
beside which she was kneeling. The children, who 
adored Verity, flew over to her in their nightdresses and 
pyjamas. 

“This is the last,” laughed Mrs. Sinclair. “Oh! 
where do children manage to pick up so much dirt? No, 
Judy,” Judith was delightful, rosy, eighteen months 
old, and the youngest of her flock, “you can’t go to Lady 
Rees until you are washed and dried.” 

The children were loud in their laments when she told 
them she was going away. “Oh! come back wery, wery 
soon, won’t you?” said little Reggie, who had inherited 
his mother’s large, dark eyes and emotional nature. 
“Oh! do say you’ll come back wery soon.” 

Mrs. Sinclair looked up at the girl, but did not add 
her entreaties. 

“I— I don’t know,” faltered Verity. “I don’t know 
when I shall come back.” 

“Then I shall cwy,” replied Reggie, promptly pro- 
361 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


ceeding to do so. “Oh! I do love you so, and I do want 
you to come back.” 

“Hush, Reggie,” said his mother from the tub, “you 
mustn’t behave like a baby. Judy is the baby. Tell 
Lady Rees that we all hope ever so that she will come 
back soon . 7 7 

Reggie looked at Verity with swimming eyes, and 
tried to check his sobs. “We — gulp — hope ever — gulp — 
so that you’ll come — gulp — back soon.” 

Verity caught him to her and kissed him, but she did 
not say any more about her return. Instead, she dis- 
tributed some toys she had bought in town that day, and 
which filled their souls with ecstasy. 

Mrs. Sinclair accompanied her to the gate when she 
went. They had only talked about the children and gen- 
eralities. Mrs. Sinclair was too wise to ask any more 
questions, or refer to Verity’s confidence and her own. 

But she looked at Verity with the yearning affection 
of the older woman who would, if she could, bear the 
burden of the younger. 

Verity threw her arms round her neck and kissed her. 

“Thank you, thank you,” she said, although she 
hardly knew herself for what she was thanking her. 

“We all hope ever so that you will come back soon,” 
said the vicar’s wife. 

Verity went back to the Hall with a little warmth 
round her heart, for every one likes to be missed when 
he goes away, and to know — even if he does not intend to 
come back — that some one will lament him. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


A COMMONPLACE BUSINESS 

* ‘Nonsense !” said old Lady Finborough, patting her 
toupee with careful fingers, “girls always grow quieter 
when they are married. I have noticed it repeatedly. 
In fact, I approve of it. A married woman should not 
behave like a young unmarried girl. ,, 

“Oh! nowadays people don’t settle down,” said Mrs. 
Townsend; “married women are often much younger and 
perkier than when they are unappropriated blessings. 
Your choice of a husband is rather a grave affair, but 
when you’ve chosen him and got him safely — begone, 
dull care! Having fluttered into the nicest cage you can 
find, you flap your wings and sing your blithest. . . . 
No, there is something wrong with Verity. She was 
such a transparent, happy little thing, you could see the 
thoughts chasing through her brain and the emotions 
through her heart, and now — now she has closed up like 
an oyster.” 

“Very proper, too,” said old Lady Finborough, who 
was determined that she would not agree with Mrs. 
Townsend. She had noticed a change in both Verity and 
Bur ford, and she was inwardly rather perturbed to know 
what it might mean, but she was not going to discuss 
them with Mrs. Townsend, although she was an old 
friend. 

“And Burford is aiming with deadly precision and 
slaughtering the poor little birdies by the hundred. He 
is shooting as though he were letting off very explosive 
steam, and he has quite forgotten how to flirt.” 

363 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“That is also becoming,’ ’ said his sister. 

“Yes? A man — ah! well, I don’t know. But a 
woman doesn’t know how to flirt till she is married. I 
believe Verity is trying to flirt with Captain Falkner. 
She’s rather crude at the game. I think I must offer 
her some hints.” 

“You’re a depraved worldling,” said Lady Finbor- 
ough. “Don’t talk to Verity. I won’t have her made 
like all you other women.” 

“Merci bien!” laughed Ira. “You do not like our 
pattern?” 

No, I don’t,” said the other. “You spoil the men 
before they marry, and afterward you try and upset the 
matrimonial pie. Women like you are not ill-natured or 
vicious, but you often make a lot of trouble. Keep your 
mischievous little fingers out of Burford’s matrimonial 
pie.” 

Just then “the Yogi lady,” Laura Rees, came into 
the room, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. 

“What’s the matter?” said Mrs. Townsend. “Have 
you got a cold or is your particular beauty specialist 
dead?” 

“Oh!” said Laura, “poor Toto has succumbed. I 
have just had a wire. Oh, the poor darling! It was all 
my fault.” 

“It serves you right,” said Lady Finborough, se- 
verely. “My sympathies are with the dog. You were a 
silly fool, Laura.” 

“Has your dog been cut off in the flower of his 
doghood?” asked Mrs. Townsend, lazily. “What does 
Yogiism say about the fate of dead dogs? Why did he 
die?” 

“I— I dyed him,” sobbed Laura, sniffing violently. 

“You died him?” said Mrs. Townsend. “Do you 
mean you had him killed?” 

“No — no. I thought his coat was looking a little 
dull and colorless, and I thought it would make a nice 
harmony if his coat were the same color as my hair.” 

364 


A COMMONPLACE BUSINESS 


Laura Rees’s hair was now obviously henna-tinted to a 
darkish red. “So — so I rubbed — hair — dye — into his 
coat ’ ’ 

“Good gracious!” 

“And he licked it off, and it poisoned him. Yes, I 
have died — I mean killed him. I’m a cruel, wicked crea- 
ture.” 

Ira Townsend threw herself back in the chair and 
laughed till the tears came into her eyes. The disciple 
of Yogi threw a glance of rather damp scorn at her and 
retired. 

Lady Finborough smiled grimly. “Still, it’s hard 
on the dog. ‘The dog it was that died.’ She always 
used to tie him up with ribbons to match her dresses, but 
to dye him to match her hair! Ring for tea, my dear. 
The men will be in soon, and we might as well begin.” 

With the tea, Evangeline and Philippa came in. 

“I hear there has been a little accident this after- 
noon,” said Evangeline, “they sent back for some band- 
ages and wool.” 

Verity had followed in quietly behind Evangeline, 
whose figure was more than large enough to conceal her. 

“Who — who is it?” said Verity, her cheek paling. 
Lady Finborough, watching her, knew that whatever the 
trouble was it did not arise from Verity’s lack of inter- 
est in her husband. 

“Captain Falkner, I believe; his gun got caught in 
a bush. He missed his footing, and the charge went 
into his arm and neck. But I think it’s nothing serious. ’ ’ 

“Did you think it was your husband?” teased Mrs. 
Townsend. 

“Oh! no,” said Verity, quite composed. “Only I 
hate to hear of accidents. ’ ’ 

“Oh! Burford wouldn’t do a silly thing like that,” 
said Mrs. Townsend. “When he blows out his brains it 
will be quite deliberate. Falkner is the sort of man who 
would do it by accident. . . . Anybody arriving by the 
train this evening?” she said, turning to Evangeline. 

365 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Rex Patterson, and Mr. and Mrs. Dawburn . 77 

“Oh! do you expect Mr. Patterson ? 7 7 exclaimed 
Verity. The idea pleased her, for most women have a 
soft spot for the man who is hopelessly in love with them 
and whom they have rejected. 

“Yes. He keeps it a dead secret from the Radical 
Press, and, when he goes back, writes a scathing and 
graphic denunciation of grouse shooting, headed, ‘The 
Slaughter of the Innocents . 7 77 

‘ ‘I don’t believe he is dishonest , 7 7 said Verity, warmly. 
“He is the soul of sincerity . 77 

“He is dull enough to have a sincere soul , 77 said Mrs. 
Townsend. “It must be a painful possession. Give me 
any kind of soul except a sincere one. It usually means 
that the possessor of it bores you with his opinions, in 
season and out of season, and that he has nothing in him 
— except opinions. Rex Patterson is stuffed with opinions 
like a doll with sawdust. And his ideas are just as in- 
teresting as — sawdust . 7 7 

“A good many people have the same opinion, and his 
party thinks a great deal of him , 77 returned Verity, who 
suddenly felt on the defensive for Patterson. At least, 
he was sincere, he had really loved her, he was beyond 
self-seeking. 

“The people who like his — sawdust , 77 returned Mrs. 
Townsend, “are people who are stuffed with the same 
sawdust — haricot beans, proteid food, and fizzly non-alco- 
holic drinks. That sort of thing seems to breed sincere 
souls . 7 7 

“You are prejudiced , 77 said Verity. 

“Of course I am. I am prejudiced in favor of myself. 
We are all prejudiced in favor of ourselves when we 
argue, otherwise we shouldn’t be able to get any convic- 
tion into our arguments. The prejudice gives verve and 
the power of attack. Ah! here is Burford. Burford, 
your wife went quite pale just now because she thought 
you had been killed. Most wives would have been in- 
stantly planning becoming mourning, but I swear she 

366 


A COMMONPLACE BUSINESS 


was thinking of you. I hear Lady Margetson has ordered 
some very smart mourning, but her disfigurement is — ” 
She stopped short. She had suddenly remembered who 
was connected with the scandal of the broken jaw that 
destroyed the effect of the dressmaker’s art. 

There was an awkward pause, while Mrs. Townsend 
administered a good kick to herself; for she was not ma- 
licious, and her hardness was all on the surface. She 
found it so much easier to be witty if one pretended to 
be heartless. 

Evangeline jumped in to the rescue, by upsetting a 
cup of tea. “Oh, heavens! how careless of me! Ring 
the bell, Burford. No, it didn’t go over me luckily. 
Lend me your handkerchief, Verity, I’ve shed mine some- 
where.” 

When order was restored, Rex Patterson and the 
Dawburns had arrived, and there was a general chatter 
and bustle. 

Afterward, Evangeline said to Ira Townsend, “What- 
ever possessed you to ” 

“I know. Why does one sometimes lose sense of 
everything? I wouldn’t have done it for worlds. ... I 
say, Evangeline, do you think the motor smash is respon- 
sible for this coolness between them? Oh! don’t be like 
your mother-in-law, and deny that anything is wrong. 
We can all see it. They have both altered. Do you 
know anything?” 

Evangeline shook her head, with its smooth, well- 
brushed hair thrown back from her high forehead. 

“I know nothing. Nobody knows anything. ... I 
suppose there is something wrong. You don’t think it’s 
just a lover’s quarrel? Charles and I never quarrel, but, 
then, we walk along on parallel lines which never touch. 
She’s a romantic little thing. I can’t surmise ” 

“Look here. I suppose I couldn’t possibly show her 
this letter I had to-day from Muriel Margetson? I’d 
like to, if she is the cause of it all. Read it.” 

Evangeline took it. “ . . . your veiled inquiries 
367 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


rather amused me, my dear Ira. Yes, my jaw has been 
smashed, and a smashed jaw never looks quite the same 
afterward. I am having it repaired as neatly as possible 
and a few teeth replaced, but I shall have to lie perdu 
for some time, till it is presentable again. It was jolly 
lucky Thomas died when he did, otherwise he might 
have got to hear how I was smashed up. He knew it 
was the new car, but he thought I was driving it. Of 
course, I am furious over the whole thing. It's rather 
funny that Burford and I should be the object of scandal. 
If people only knew what a little there is in it. He has 
no eyes for any woman except that little doll-wife of his. 
I can’t think what has come over him. I bored him to 
extinction, and I found him as dull as ditch-water. 
Where has the old Burford gone to? I never saw any 
one so changed on their marriage. Fancy him devoted 
to a little ingenue ! I think it must be old age growing 
upon him. Take my tip, and don’t waste any powder 
and shot on him. He doesn’t see any woman in the 
world except that little American girl. I got my frocks 
from Valerie as you recommended, and though her prices 
are exorbitant ...” 

Evangeline kept the letter in her hand. “May I keep 
this, or do you want it?” 

“I don’t want it. The thing I should like to know 
is, what led to Burford going out driving with Muriel. 
No, Evangeline, mark my words, that isn’t the begin- 
ning of the story.” 

“No, but sometimes if you remove the last straw . . . 
leave the letter with me. By the bye, I expect Holt will 
be here to-morrow. He wired me this morning from 
Kingston. He’ll be landing to-morrow morning or 
to-night.” 

“Oh! is he back? I thought he was in New York.” 

“No, he rushed back when father cabled him, and— 
here he is again.” 

“Well, I’m not the attraction,” laughed Mrs. Towns- 
end. “I met him too late. It amuses me the casual way 

368 


A COMMONPLACE BUSINESS 


you Americans paddle over the herring-pond and back 
again. You’re a wonderful race.” 

Verity welcomed Rex Patterson warmly. She had 
tried to throw herself into a flirtation with Captain Falk- 
ner, but she had found it very tedious and boring. 
Other women, she knew, found him most attractive, for 
he was un homme galant, and she had determined to try 
if she could find, as so many women did, spice for her 
daily life in a flirtation with him. He was very good- 
looking, and he anticipated her every want in a way Bur- 
ford would never have done, for he did not pretend to be 
a ladies’ man, but, after the first day, she found his at- 
tentions fussy, and his carefully groomed person, with 
its dapper, neat ways, and his easily aroused interest and 
desires, simply tiresome. The only satisfaction she had 
was the fact that Burford did not like it. Once or twice 
she saw a look on his face, when he came upon them 
together, or saw them in a corner, that gave her a mo- 
mentary sense of satisfaction. He should see that other 
men found her attractive, and that she could console her- 
self, but she wished most illogically that the men were 
more like him, and that the sport were more amusing. 
Flirtation without a spark of danger is the dullest game 
going. Verity began to wonder what the other women 
found in it. 

That evening she devoted herself to Rex, by way of 
a change, and they had a long conversation. Or, rather, 
she let him talk, which he was always delighted to do. 

Presently she began to be aware of something odd in 
her companion’s manner. What was it? Was it — was 
it a sort of embarrassment, a hint of shamefacedness? 

“Some one told me you were going to Canada in 
October,” she said. 

“Oh! then you know?” he blurted out with a sort of 
relief. 

“Know? Know what? Your sister was speaking of 
your trip to some one, and I overheard her.” 

“Oh! . . . She didn’t tell you anything more?” 

25 369 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


4 ‘Was there anything more to tell?” His face had 
turned an unbecoming shade of red. She watched him 
in surprise, for Rex Patterson was not wont to get con- 
fused. 

“Well, youTl soon hear. ... I am going to Canada 
on my wedding-trip. ” He laughed a little. “It will be 
a combination of — er — pleasure and business. I want to 
investigate more of the real conditions in Canada. The 
papers are so sloppy on the subject.” 

“You are going to get married!” and for the life of 
her she could not help a little note of resentment creep- 
ing into her voice. How quickly he had consoled him- 
self! And, during the last weeks, she had often thought 
of him with pity for his disappointment. 

Then Rex went on trying to joke, “Well, weddings 
seem in the air this year. Everybody is getting spliced, 
and it’s sort of infectious, don’t you think? Once you 
begin to think about matrimony — well, you’re done for, 
I reckon.” 

Verity inquired who she was. 

He told her that she was the daughter of a well- 
known Radical M.P., and that he himself was going to 
stand for Parliament at the next election. Verity had 
once heard her speak at one of the Suffragette meetings, 
and remembered her as an angular, rather commonplace 
girl, with very pronounced opinions. But her father 
was a power in the land, and evidently Rex Patterson had 
an eye to his own advancement. She laughed a little. 
Her eyes were open. If he had married her, he would 
have had her dollars at the back of him. She need not 
have feared that she had seriously damaged his heart: it 
was a too well-controlled, mechanical little organ for 
that. Then she looked round the room. Was marriage 
nothing more than a sordid, commonplace business after 
all? She looked at Evangeline playing a most capable 
game of bridge — there had been no love in her marriage. 
Rex was making a marriage of convenience. Beatrice 
Miller’s engagement to a man old enough to be her 

370 


A COMMONPLACE BUSINESS 


father, but with as many thousands as years, had just 
been announced. She had been genuinely in love with 
Falkner: it was impossible that she could care for her 
bald, corpulent fiance. Was Evangeline right after all? 
Was she too romantic? Did she expect too much of life, 
and particularly married life? “I dare say Burford 
never loved me at all,” she said cynically to herself, 
while Rex flowed on with his views about Canada and the 
emigration question. “I dare say he would never have 
looked at me if I hadn’t been rich.” Yet he had refused 
to take a penny of her money, even for the home that he 
loved. It was because he was ashamed, because he had 
been found out. He had never really cared; that scene 
in the Secret Room. . . . She tried to persuade herself 
that he was a self-seeker, like Rex Patterson. 

After that evening, Verity let Captain Falkner 
monopolize her again. As he had to wear his arm in a 
sling, and was debarred from joining the shooting-parties, 
he was left a good deal with the women who did not 
shoot. Verity was one of these: she could not get over 
the feeling that it was a cruel sport, and when she saw 
the little, soft, lifeless bodies picked up, something 
pricked her heart. 

Burford, as Verity well knew, did not like Falkner. 
They had had a quarrel the last time Falkner was down 
at Lyndhurst. Like the very feminine creature she was, 
Verity could not resist mildly flirting with Falkner, for 
she saw that it annoyed Burford. Probably if it had not 
been for this little zest to the sport, Verity would never 
have continued to accept Falkner’s attentions, because 
she soon found that he was as vain and empty-headed as 
the peacocks that strutted on the terraces at Lyndhurst. 
He did not even interest her as much as Rex Patterson, 
for the latter had at least deeply studied his own special 
subject. Falkner knew no subject, and was merely a 
bundle of other people’s opinions. 

One night after dinner there was a little impromptu 
dance. Falkner was really a good dancer — his one ac- 

371 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


complishment — and Verity thoroughly enjoyed dancing 
with him. Burford had settled down to bridge before 
the dance was mooted. Verity was easily excited when 
dancing, and that night, as she danced with Falkner, 
her cheeks were flushed to an exquisite pink, like a 
wild rose opening to the sun, and her eyes shone as they 
had not done for many a day. 

Youth finds it hard work to be dull and unhappy, and 
Verity had a wonderful amount of elasticity. The music 
got into her blood, and the motion intoxicated her. She 
abandoned herself to the pleasure of the moment, and 
was so frankly happy while Falkner ’s arms were round 
her, that perhaps he was not to be entirely condemned if 
he misunderstood the source of her gayety. He was a 
little surprised that a girl so recently wed should be 
ready for a flirtation, but he shrugged his shoulders and 
said, “These Americans — there is no understanding 
them!” 

Verity had danced many times with Falkner, when 
she became aware that Burford was watching them from 
the doorway. He was quite incapable of doing anything 
so ridiculous or ill-bred as to scowl like the jealous hus- 
band of a novelette. He lounged against the doorpost 
in his usual careless way, and a casual observer would 
not have noticed that he even remarked his bride in the 
arms of Falkner. But Verity had grown to know the 
fine shades of emotion in his carefully expressionless face, 
and she knew he was displeased. 

They came to a standstill a few yards from where he 
stood. Falkner had not noticed him. He played up to 
the part of an enamored lover, and most reluctantly took 
his arm from about her waist. The way he did it was a 
caress. She was a little giddy and swayed against him. 
His lips were very near her hair. 

That night, as they went up to their respective 
couches, Verity paused for a moment at one of the stair- 
case windows to watch the effect of the moon on a small 
loch which lay at one side of the house. She heard her 

372 


A COMMONPLACE BUSINESS 


husband’s voice behind her. She hurriedly brought the 
tip of a cold nose away from the window-pane. 

“Verity !" 

“Isn't the moon beautiful?" 

“I don't wish to interfere with you in any way or — 
or curtail your pleasure. But — you know the sort of 
man Falkner is?" 

Verity shrugged her shoulders and leaned back against 
the dark crimson curtain. The light was rather dim, 
and her skin looked dazzlingly white against the red 
fabric. The frock she was wearing was rather more 
decollete than usual, and her slender arms, tapering to 
her tiny little wrists, were quite bare. She was still 
rather hot from dancing, and her white, rounded bosom 
heaved a little as she faced him. She was pretty enough 
that night to fire any man’s blood, and Burford's eyes 
blazed as he looked at her, for he was both jealous and 
torn with passion for her. 

“You know the sort of man you are dealing with?" 
repeated Burford, trying to keep cool. 

“Is he so very different from other men?" said Veri- 
ty, with deadly intent. 

He only looked at her. For a moment Verity was 
frightened. She suddenly felt very small and helpless 
beside him. 

“He — he dances divinely," she went on hurriedly. 
“You have a prejudice against him." 

“I only wanted to ask you that question," said Bur- 
ford, quietly, but his eyes were burning. Verity vaguely 
put her hand on her neck; it felt as if his eyes were sear- 
ing her flesh. And what was that throbbing so insist- 
ently, so suffocatingly under the ninon of her bodice? 
Why did his nearness fill her with a physical faint- 
ness, why did she feel a blind craving, in spite of her 
hatred for him, that he should take her in those strong 
arms and hold her tightly— tightly— The electricity of 
thwarted passion vibrated between them. It was agony 
to him to look at her and see her bosom rise and fall, 

373 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


her bright eyes dance and flicker, her soft lips part and 
tremble. 

For an instant he was beside himself. He felt her 
yielding. He made a step toward her. She should give 
him her lips, he would force her to return his passion. 
Her usual calm detachment had fled this evening. He 
would make her feel, make her desire him as her hus- 
band. Her eyes deepened affrightedly at his movement 
and the message in his eyes. 

Suddenly he remembered the night when he had pro- 
posed to her. How simply and willingly she had given 
him her lips. With what infinite tenderness and passion 
she had surrendered herself to him. How sweet and 
fresh a thing her love had been. No, he could not force 
from her what she had once been so willing to give. If 
she never gave him anything again he could not do so 
ruffianly a thing. 

She saw the fierce light die out of his eyes, and she 
knew the hand she had put out to ward him off was not 
necessary. 

“I — I am tired,” she faltered, the roses fading from 
her cheeks. 

”1 know,” he said, gently, “go to bed.” 

She stumbled, going up the stairs, and he put his 
arm round her to steady her. But there was no pressure 
in it. 

He left her at her door and then turned away. 
“Schlafen sie wohl,” he said. “Don’t look at the moon 
any more.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


STOOD IN THE CORNER 

The next day, when the ‘ ‘grousers,’ ’ as Evangeline 
called them, set forth, it was arranged that any of the 
remaining house-party who felt energetic enough for a 
walk should stroll toward a specified spot to meet them 
on their return. After lunch, the weather grew rather 
threatening, and when the time came for starting, only 
four people were brave enough to dare a tramp. They 
were Philippa, Laura Rees, Verity, and Captain Falk- 
ner. Miss Rees and Philippa — Laura was trying so hard 
to make a Yogi of her — started out first, for at the last 
moment Captain Falkner decided to put on thicker boots, 
and Verity waited for him. When they set forth, the 
other two were out of sight. 

“We’ll overtake them, ” said Falkner, easily. “You’re 
such a ripping walker. And you look well when you 
walk. Few women do. Women either stride or toddle, 
waddle like a duck, or crawl like a snail.” 

“You know the way, don’t you?” said Verity, ignor- 
ing the compliment. 

“Oh, yes, I’ve often been up here. Sad, old Finbor- 
ough dying like that, wasn’t it? He was a fine shot, 
too. Lot of joys you miss in heaven, don’t you? What’s 
going to make up to a man for shooting?” 

“You’ll feel too angelic to want to shoot anything,” 
said Verity, carelessly. 

There was certainly going to be a storm soon. The 
sky was heavy and lowering; the waters of the loch 
seemed full of a mysterious blackness. 

375 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


* ‘Think we’ll be allowed to do some target shooting? 
Your husband’s the best shot here this year. He carries 
oif everything, lucky old chap; all the honors and,” with 
a little inclination of his head toward her, “all the 
beauty. ’ ’ 

Verity made an impatient gesture. His continual 
compliments were too cloying. 

“Have I any defects, Captain Falkner?” she said, 
rather sarcastically. “Don’t you think it heightens the 
effects of light to occasionally have a little shade? Do 
you really think all women adorable, and do you imagine 
they want to be told so every few minutes?” 

He smiled. “Oh! one has occasionally to pay a 
tribute to absent qualities. But with you — I only say 
half what I mean.” 

He gave her a meaning look, but she was gazing up 
at the angry, scudding clouds. 

“What a feeling one gets of the implacable, the re- 
lentless in Nature, on these moors,” mused Verity. “I 
can quite imagine, if one lived here always, one would 
become the sternest of fatalists. The dreary, iron-bound 
Calvinistic religion is the only religion for such a coun- 
try. I feel here to-day as if I were just a sort of blown- 
about leaf on the face of things. I don’t feel as if I had 
any footing, any hold, not even as much as the heather 
we tread on.” 

“What an emotional woman you are,” said Falkner. 
“You are the sort of woman that was meant to live a full 
life.” 

Verity looked at him. “What do you mean by a full 
life?” She hardly liked his tone, she did not know 
why. 

“Oh! a woman who embraces life in all its various 
phases. A woman who takes what she wants and drops 
that which she does not want, who is above the silly 
trammels of convention, who realizes that youth is short, 
and that youth is the season for love.” He stole a 
glance at her, but it was growing dusk and he could 

376 


STOOD IN THE CORNER 


not see her expression. “A woman who is capable of 
passion is so rare that she is a law to herself. The only 
law to her is that she must enjoy life to the full. Life 
to such a woman has infinite possibilities. The domestic 
hearth — it is well enough for the cowlike woman — but 
for a woman with a temperament! She was never meant 
for it.” 

They were climbing a rather steep little bit of hill- 
side, and he took her arm with his uninjured hand. She 
quietly detached it. 

”1 do not need any assistance, thank you.” 

“Dear little woman, have I offended you by my plain 
speaking? Haven’t you felt all I said a hundred times 
over?” 

“No, thank heaven, I have not. And please don’t 
address me in such a way. I think your ideas are dis- 
gusting. In sowing such ideas among women, you do it 
with the hope of reaping the crop. As to your idea of 
a temperament — you don’t know what it means. By a 
temperament you only understand sensuality and wanton- 
ness. I am sorry to find you have such horrible ideas 
about women.” 

Falkner turned a little nasty. “I learned them from 
your sex,” he said, with a sneer. “I had heard there 
was a Puritanical strain in American women, but — well, 
your countrywoman, Beatrice Miller, did not exhibit 
such unpleasant prejudices. Why are you walking so 
fast?” 

“Because I want to get to the rendezvous, and hear 
some pleasanter conversation. Why haven’t we caught 
up with mother and Miss Rees?” 

“Because we have been walking in a different direc- 
tion,” said Falkner, coolly. 

“What!” She stood and faced him, an angry, wind- 
blown dryad. 

“It seemed silly to flock. I hate flocks. I thought a 
tete-a-tete would be nicer. Apparently I — deceived my- 
self.” 


377 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“You did,” said Verity. “Take me back at once.” 

“Oh! very well. . . . Don’t you think these heroics 
are a little bourgeois? You certainly look well when 
your eyes flash, but it is so dark that I cannot see them. ’ ’ 

Just then there was a vivid flash of lightning, fol- 
lowed by a terrific clap of thunder. 

“Ah! now we are in for it. . . . Here comes the 
rain. Are you afraid of storms?” 

“No, but we are a good way from the house, aren’t 
we?” 

He was peering round. Then he stopped short. 

“Did you notice whether we left this little tarn on 
our left or right?” 

“I didn’t notice. You said you knew the way. . . . 
Do you mean you don’t know ” 

He shrugged his shoulders. “We’re on the moors, 
but which is the way back to Durriemuir I haven’t any 
idea. I could find out, only it’s so confoundedly dark. 
It’s like night.” 

It was quite as dark as night, and the rain was pour- 
ing its hardest. Very soon it had soaked through her 
tweed coat and skirt. She could not see where she was 
walking, and was every minute in imminent danger of 
spraining her ankle on some of the rough bits of rocks. 

“Look here,” said Falkner, stepping short, “I’m 
awfully sorry. But I wasn’t to know it would get as 
dark as this, was I? I should have been all right if this 
rain hadn’t come on. If only we could find shelter some- 
where ! ’ ’ 

Suddenly, as if in answer, they stumbled up against a 
shepherd’s hut. It was partly broken, and the door hung 
disconsolately on one hinge, but it afforded some little 
shelter. 

Verity hesitated to enter. “Oh, I sha’n’t make love 
to you!” said Falkner with a short laugh. “I’m much 
too uncomfortable to play that game, and I never worry 
a reluctant woman. There are so many others. . . 
There’s nothing for it but to wait till the storm clears a 

378 


STOOD IN THE CORNER 


little. We may fall down some chasm and break our 
blessed necks if we go on.” 

It was evident that what he said was true. They 
must wait till the storm and darkness lifted. She sat 
down on an old box, and he flung himself on a bed of 
dried heather. 

It was a ludicrously painful situation, and Verity was 
furious with her companion. It was owing to his fatuous 
conceit that they were in this absurd and unpleasant 
predicament; for to sit still in rain-soaked clothing is, to 
say the least of it, most uncomfortable. Verity sat 
there, and wondered what Burford would think. He had 
warned her only the other night, and in the old days they 
had laughed together over Falkner’s lady-killing airs. 
And she had fallen a victim to him! It was infuri- 
ating. 

“Do tell me,” said Falkner, after they had sat for 
some time, “it’s so dull — what was the real truth of the 
motor-car story and the broken jaw?” 

“There was no story,” said Verity, icily. “My hus- 
band was trying a car for our neighbor, Lady Margetson, 
and it got out of his control.” 

“Ho! ho! is that all? Pity to take the ginger out 
of the story. Well, he can’t say much to you, can 
he?” 

Yes, this escapade was on a par with the motor 
story and Lady Margetson. With inward rage, Verity 
had to acknowledge it. She knew it was rapidly grow- 
ing late, and it was, if possible, darker. Night was 
really closing in now. 

“What time is it?” asked Verity, sick at heart. 

He struck a match and looked at his watch. “By 
Jove, I thought I felt hungry. It’s half past seven — 
time we were dressing for dinner.” 

Verity sprang up from the box. “Oh! I must go 
back. Oh! let’s find some way.” 

“My dear Lady Rees, we shall only find a way to 
Kingdom Come. This moor is chock full of pitfalls. ’ ’ 

379 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


‘‘But we can't stop here all night? GoocUheavens! 
what shall we do?” 

‘‘You can try the heather if you get tired of the box. 
. . . They’ll send a search party after us. We did that 
last year when some people were lost.” 

“Oh!” Verity buried her face in her hands. The 
rain was now coming in through the worn-out roof. 
Drops kept falling on her head and down her neck. And 
she was deadly cold. There was another long silence, 
while Falkner smoked. 

“I say, really, Lady Rees, I am beastly sorry. I never 
thought of anything like this. I only meant a quiet 
stroll together. ... It is rough luck. I would offer you 
my coat, but it is wet through.” 

“What time is it now?” 

“It’s close on nine o’clock. . . . Surely they’ll come 
along soon. The trouble is, they’ll go in the wrong 
direction. I’m confoundedly hungry, aren’t you?” 

But Verity was not thinking of her dinner. 

Captain Falkner sprang to his feet in an attitude of 
attention. “I fancy I hear something. Look, aren’t 
there little lights right in front?” 

They both stared out, trying to pierce the gloom. 
Then a faint noise reached them. 

“Yes, they’re looking for us. Hurrah! we’ll soon 
have some dry clothes and some food.” He made a cup 
with his hands. “Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!” 

There was an answering shout. Falkner kept up the 
call till, by lighting matches in the hut, he had shown 
them where they were. Verity did not move from her 
seat on the box. She felt sick and faint with anxiety. 
And she dreaded to see Burford’s face. She had brought 
her predicament on herself, she realized that, although 
she had done so more or less innocently. Could one fall 
into such things innocently? Did men sometimes fall 
into them innocently, by some one else’s design? And 
had Lady Margetson — ?” The shouts were very near, 
and the lights loomed up. 


380 


STOOD IN THE CORNER 


“We thought you were never coming. Both soaked 
through. Lost our way in the storm, and luckily found 
a sort of shelter here.” 

“Is Verity there? Is she all right?” 

It was Charles's voice. Was Burford not with the 
search party? 

“Yes, she’s here, and shivering like a drowned rat. 
Nice experience we’ve had. These Scotch moors are the 
devil in a storm.” 

The lights in the lanterns were turned on them both. 
Something big and bulky in heavy waterproof wrappings 
strode toward her. She knew him by his height; it was 
her husband. 

“Put this round you.” He wrapped a heavy cloak 
round her. She could not see his face, it was a white 
blur and rather uncanny and strange in the flickering light. 
His voice was quite expressionless. He might have been 
asking her to have a cup of tea at an afternoon party. 

“Burford, I — ” her voice was absurdly small and 
husky, even to herself. 

“Don’t talk. We must get you back as quickly as we 
can. Your clothes are soaked.” 

She tried to get off the box and stand on her feet, but 
she felt as if she were glued to the wood. 

“We’ve been hunting for you for the last hour and 
a half. How did you manage to get over here?” said 
Charles. 

“I don’t know, old chap,” said Captain Falkner. 

‘ ‘When it began to get dark I completely lost my bearings. 
We must have wandered in this direction unknowingly. 
We were going to meet you.” 

Verity found that the cold and the sitting still had 
given her feet the cramp, so that she could hardly lift 
one foot in front of the other. It was horribly painful. 
She tried to jerk herself forward. 

“Oh, you poor child! Give her some brandy out of 
the flask,” said Charles. “You’re chilled to the bone. 
Oh, dear! I am sorry this has happened.” 

381 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“Are you all ready?” said Burford, suddenly. “I’m 
going to carry her.” 

Without more ado he caught her up in his arms as he 
had done once before. 

“Put your arms round my neck,” he said, quickly. 
“Now some one go ahead with the lantern.” 

Verity’s cold hands stole round his neck. She had 
taken off her gloves and forgotten to put them on again. 

After what seemed to her a long, long way, the lights 
of Durriemuir came in view. 

“Thank the Lord fora roof!” cried Falkner. “I pity 
the poor Johnny who said his lodging was on the cold 
ground.” 

Philippa came forward to them both, her face white 
with anxiety. “Oh! my darling, I thought something 
dreadful had happened.” 

“Don’t waste any time talking,” said Burford, practi- 
cally. “Get her into a bath at once, and pour some hot 
whisky down her throat.” He carried her up the stairs 
to her room and there deposited her. 

When Philippa hurried into her room a few seconds 
later, she was crying and sobbing in a hopelessly ruined 
chintz-covered chair. This time she was the child who 
had been stood in the corner. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


NO RIGHTS ! 

Holt Vicary was expected at Durriemuir that after- 
noon, and Philippa hardly knew whether to be glad or 
sorry. She might have been very glad, but— she looked 
up at Ira Townsend, who was dashing off stray bits of 
musical comedy at the piano. 

“How quietly you think !” said Ira, with an abrupt 
chord. “I always think noisily. You wouldn’t imagine 
I’ve been thinking all the time I’ve been playing twiddly 
bits, would you?” 

“I’ve heard that some people think best in a crowd,” 
Philippa returned. 

“While I’ve been hammering you silly with ‘Yip-i- 
addi-i-ay’ and ‘The Chocolate Soldier,’ I’ve been seriously 
pondering the marriage question. You’re a widow. I’m 
a widow. And we’ve both been widows long enough to 
have got out of the married habit. I’ve got the widow 
habit now. Getting to like being married or being a 
widow is only a habit, you know.” 

“Are you — are you thinking of returning to an old 
habit?” said Philippa, lightly. Evidently, by a curious 
coincidence, they had both been thinking, one quietly, 
the other noisily, of the return of Holt Vicary. 

“Better a habit you know than an old one that may 
lead — goodness knows where! Eh? What do you say? 
You don’t seem in any hurry to go back to an old habit.” 

Philippa brushed aside the question. Ira, in a most 
cunningly cut skirt, which gave her the contour of a girl 
of eighteen, lit a cigarette and walked over to the fire- 

383 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


place. A small fire was burning, for the air that morn- 
ing was nippy. 

“From all of which I take it, you are seriously con- 
sidering matrimony for a second time. ’ ’ 

“Well — yes. Other people have considered it before 
for me, but this time — well, I know my own mind, but I 
don’t know my own heart. I’ve been considering it for 
a long time. . . . Tell me, Mrs. Marlowe, American 
men treat their wives rather nicely, don’t they?” 

Philippa started. There was but very little disguise 
now. What was her cue? To counsel her rival to accept 
the man she loved? There was only one comfort left her 
— a melancholy one; evidently Ira Townsend had not seen 
or guessed her own secret. 

“They have that reputation,” she replied, steadily. 

“It would be a distinct change,” said Ira, musingly. 
“Once I had a Louis Quinze drawing-room, and then I 
changed completely over and had a Sheraton. I like ‘the 
changing scenes of life.’ In America I could divorce 
him if I didn’t like the color of the socks he wore, 
couldn’t I? I hate men who dress up their feet. ... I 
shouldn’t be expected to live entirely on pop-corn and 
grapefruit and clam something or other if I went to live 
in your country, should I? Will you be going back to 
New York soon?” 

“I — yes, maybe I shall.” 

“Why does a man want to marry a flighty English 
widow, when he might marry one of his own handsome 
countrywomen, a woman like you, for instance?” 

Philippa looked at her sharply, but Ira was blowing 
rings in the air with a wholly guileless expression. 

“Of course, the trouble about marriage is — it’s a 
sort of last chapter. Didn’t some one say ‘The most 
charming romances are the unfinished ones?’ To be a 
regret to a man instead of something that regularly sits 
down to meals with him — isn’t it better? After you’re 
married, you take your part with the eggs and bacon, the 
salt and pepper, and the soda siphon. ... I shall refuse 

384 


NO RIGHTS! 


to have any meals with him in case he confounds me with 
the soda siphon. . . . But the American accent is rather 
fascinating, all the same, only if he were eating he 
couldn't be talking. . . . Oh! I hear the car. This must 
be Mr. Vicary. Come along. Let's make the usual 
asinine inquiries about the trip." 

But Philippa did not go, and presently she heard Ira 
and Vicary exchanging laughing repartees somewhere in 
the distance. Verity was confined to her room with a 
feverish cold, consequent on her wetting that night on 
the moor. 

She rose and closed the door, for the voice of happi- 
ness is hard to bear when your own life is empty. She 
tried to take an interest in the wonderful collection of 
needlework pictures which adorned the walls, some of 
which were unique specimens from the reign of Charles 
I. There were, too, some rare old prints, and in a glass- 
topped table were some souvenirs of Bonnie Prince 
Charlie, a beautifully wrought dirk, and a big clasp that 
had once held his plaid together. She was examining an 
old watercolor portrait of Margaret Tudor, who had gone 
to Scotland to marry James the Fourth, when she heard 
the door open behind her. She felt some one come in 
and stand beside her. 

"Say, who is the bold-eyed lady?" 

"Margaret Tudor," replied Philippa without turn- 
ing, trying to school herself to indifference. "James 
the First of England, you know, was her great grand- 
son." 

"Is that so? I don’t find her engrossing — and you 
don't either." 

"She was a most interesting woman, she " 

"I know a much more interesting woman, and I do 
think she might let me see her face. Ah! that's bet- 
ter. ' ' The bright, frank, rather boyish eyes were look- 
ing into hers once more. He looked bronzed and very 
well, and his shoulders, in the American-cut suit, looke 1 
broader than ever. 

26 


385 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“I thought you were going to stop in New York for 
awhile,” faltered Philippa. 

“I am going back in a week’s time/’ he said, easily. 

“In a week! Good gracious, why have you made the 
trip again?” 

“I’ve just come over to fetch something. I couldn’t 
trust it to the post, so — I’ve come to fetch it.” 

“It must be an important something.” 

“The most important something in the world. A 
woman ! ’ ’ 

“Oh!” Yes, she knew who the woman was. 

“I really ought to have taken her with me the last 
trip, but she hadn’t made up her mind. And I didn’t 
urge her very strongly, because it was just on the carpet 
that I might not have been in a position to ask her to 
come with me.” 

“What do you mean?” She looked at him with her 
soft, puzzled eyes. 

“I dare say you’ve heard there’s been a bit of a panic 
in New York the last six weeks. One or two big indus- 
trial corporations I’m connected with were threatened. 
That’s why I went back. A good many people have got 
squeezed out the last month. I thought at one time I 
was going to be, too. . . . But a few of us put our 
backs to it, and we won through all right, with some- 
thing to the good. But if I’d become a poor man, 
I couldn’t have asked the woman I love to share my 
life.” 

Philippa’s eyes flashed with indignation. Would Ira 
Townsend deliberately have thrown him over if he had 
been squeezed out? Perhaps; but for the honor of her 
sex she could not let it pass. 

“You have a very poor opinion of women,” she said, 
meeting his eyes squarely with her own. 

“She once told me she was very fond of luxury.” 

“All women are fond of luxury, but when your life 
is at stake you don’t trouble to put on your new Paris 
hat. If — if she loves you she would not mind starting 

386 


NO RIGHTS! 


all over afresh with you. No true woman puts luxury 
before love.” 

“All the same, if I had been squeezed out, she would 
never have seen me again/ ’ 

Philippa moved away to the window. “I think she 
is getting quite resigned to the idea of living in New 
York. I — I have been giving American men a good 
character. I think you have only to persuade her — a 
little more.” 

“And how shall I persuade her a little more?” said 
Holt. “Why do you persist in turning your back on me 
to-day? First, it is the ugly Margaret Tudor, and then 
it’s the very Scotch view. What have I done to be 
crowded out?” 

She laughed and picked up a useless silk purse that 
she was supposed to be knitting. 

“Who has been complimenting you on your hands?” 

“My — why, no one, what do you mean?” 

“I wondered why you wanted to knit, . . . Tell me, 
how shall I persuade her?” 

“I sha’n’t help you to do your wooing,” said Philippa, 
with a certain amount of annoyance, dropping several 
stitches. That was too much. 

“Oh! . . . Only I would like to persuade her in the 
way she wants to be persuaded. By the bye, I came over 
with your brother. I expect he and Veronica are mar- 
ried by this time. He was kept over by the same trou- 
ble. He was so happy, it made you blink every time 
you looked at him.”' 

“Pm so glad,” said Philippa, warmly, dropping the 
knitting. He promptly confiscated it. “George de- 
serves to be happy.” 

“I deserve to be happy,” said Holt. 

“Do you?” said Philippa. “You have not been 
faithful and constant, like George. You fall in love so 
easily. No doubt it’s a good thing for you that you can 
transfer your affections so quickly, but — no, such people 
don’t deserve to be very happy. . . . But there I — I 

387 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


wish you every happiness. I am sure she is going to say 
‘yes/ so I should like to be the first to congratulate 
you/’ 

He came a little closer. “You think she is really 
going to say ‘yes’?” he said, very quietly. 

“Yes. . . . Oh!” For his arms were tightly round 
her and his face very near hers. 

“Say it, then. Say ‘yes/ Philippa.” 

“But I — I can’t say ‘yes’ for Mrs. Townsend — you 
must ask ” 

“Mrs. Townsend has said ‘yes’ for herself. Didn’t 
you know? She is going to marry Andrew Fairfax, the 
banker, who was at college with me. He was over last 
year, and he has been continuing his courtship by letter 
ever since. I persuaded her to say yes. Andrew’s a 
clinking good sort, and I wanted her to marry him. I 
knew what you thought, but I wasn’t wooing for my- 
self.” 

“You don’t know what I was thinking,” retorted 
Philippa. 

His eyes twinkled. “Well, I think I know as much 
as a man ever knows about what a woman is thinking. 
But heaven help the man who thinks he knows all she is 
thinking. I’m all kinds of a fool right enough, but I’m 
not exactly that kind. . . . Well, we’ve got just a 
week!” 

“For what? A week is soon gone!” 

“That’s a consolation, for I’m sure, womanlike, you’ll 
wait till the last hour before you marry me! Why do 
women look so long before they leap? Why do they risk 
so much and yet so little? I knew I wanted to marry 
you the first time I talked to you — no, I mean you talked 
to me. You did, you deliberately pursued me! Come, 
which day next week will you marry me?” 

“How can I marry you next week? It’s too — too 
absurd.” 

“It’s delicious doing absurd things. You take my 
word for it. The wonder of it is to me that more people 

388 


NO RIGHTS! 


don’t do absurd things. Now you’ve settled Verity so 
happily ” 

“Oh! if I were sure of that. Holt, I am afraid there 
is something wrong. How could I take my happiness, 
knowing that she was miserable?” 

“Dearest, am I your happiness?” 

“Yes. . . . Oh, suppose some one came in! Holt, 
what can I do?” 

“Ask her what’s the matter. Perhaps it’s only a 
lover’s tiff. We sha’n’t have any, because we’re much 
too sensible, or — absurd? But, seriously, Phil, ask her 
a few tactful, motherly questions. You’ll find it’s only 
one of these trifles young people use as a sort of obstacle 
race to increase the fervor of their affections. Now tell 
me all you have been doing since I saw you last, because 
henceforward I shall know what you are doing! And 
when you’ve got through making love to me — do start 
again — we’ll have a look at your engagement book, and 
settle the day.” 

Verity came down that night to dinner, and directly 
she saw Holt and her mother together she knew what had 
happened. For an instant she felt like some one on a 
desert island, who sees her last friend put off in a boat 
and leaves her stranded. She had at last decided to con- 
fide in her mother, but when she saw them together she 
had not the heart to cast a cloud on the fair horizon 
of their happiness. She would let her mother go back 
with Holt, and then, later on, she would write— and then 
—then she could go to New York and arrange for the 
divorce. 

For the present it was necessary that she should play 
up, for she had several times seen her mother looking at 
her with an uneasy expression, and she wanted now to 
allay all fears. She looked rather pale and wan, and 
there was a little droop to her mouth, but that was 
accounted for by the cold. 

“Iam going to be your stepfather,” said Holt, look- 
389 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

ing more of a boy than ever. “Please be respectful to 
me.” 

“Ah! but now I am a married woman it is not neces- 
sary for me to be respectful to you. ’ ’ 

“It looks as if you had not been brought up prop- 
erly,” suggested Holt, laughing. “Do be respectful, if 
only to save your mother’s reputation. Ah! Burford, 
come and give us your opinion. By the bye, I shall be 
your stepfather-in-law! How do you like it, old chap? 
Yes, we’re going to follow your example. Now tell us, 
honestly, what do you think of matrimony?” 

Verity felt that her mother’s eyes were upon her, 
asking questions — uneasy, anxious questions. 

She slipped her hand under Burford’s arm as he stood 
with his hand in his Norfolk pocket. But his look of 
surprise nearly destroyed the effect of her little bit of 
stage business. 

“Burford and I think exactly alike about it, but it 
isn’t fair to ask such questions. Holt, you’ll be late for 
dinner if you don’t hurry, and so will you, Burford. Did 
you have good sport to-day? How many?” 

She turned away with her husband, her hand still 
tucked in his arm. Then, when they were out of ear- 
shot, she withdrew it as she said: 

“Burford, you don’t mind, do you? I mean, pre- 
tending a little. There’s going to be a little dance again 
this evening. Will you— will you dance with me? I 
don’t want mother to think anything is wrong.” 

He smiled down upon her rather grimly. “I suppose 
it never occurs to you that you can devise some special 
forms of torture worthy of the Middle Ages? I am not 
stuffed with sawdust, you know. . . . Only, Verity, for 
heaven’s sake, after your mother has gone, release me 
from my promise to play the happy husband. I’ve nearly 
reached the limit. If I went over it— you might not 
like the result.” 

“Just just till mother sails, ” said Verity, hurriedly, 
with her eyes on the ground. 

390 


NO RIGHTS ! 


‘‘Very well. F 11 do my best. Are you better? You 
look rather pale?” 

“I — I behaved very foolishly,” said Verity, her cheeks 
suddenly flaming out a contradiction to his words. 
“You have the right to scold me.” 

“I have no rights. You have given me no rights. I 
am merely the man whose hospitality you are accepting, 
for a little while, under a misapprehension.” 


CHAPTER XXXV 


THE END — ALONE! 

So Philippa’s fears were allayed, and in her own un- 
expected happiness, and her frantic , scramble for some- 
thing approaching a trousseau, which merely resolved 
itself into attractive steamer clothes, the questions she 
would have liked to ask were entirely overlaid. Holt 
could not wait for her more than the week, and Verity 
and Philippa flew round so that neither had any time for 
quiet thought. Verity was glad of the diversion which 
brought her up to London. 

A week after his arrival, Holt carried off a laughing, 
protesting bride, who was going to be happy for the first 
time in her life. They were married from Lyndhurst, at 
the little church which Verity had grown to love. Mrs. 
Sinclair played the “Wedding March,’’ and Verity deco- 
rated the church with flowers. 

When the motor which took them away had dwindled 
to a speck in the distance, Verity found herself on the 
long terrace at Lyndhurst, still a stranger in a strange 
land. She had kept up the farce wonderfully to the last 
moment, and now — now what was left for her? In the 
scramble she had put her own troubles to one side for 
the moment, but shelved troubles are still present ones. 
Mrs. Sinclair, who knew what she was feeling, and real- 
ized her need of distraction, came up with a proposition. 

“I wish you would come with me this afternoon to 
see the poor little children at Harberton. You promised 
you would. Why not this afternoon?’’ 

Verity caught eagerly at the suggestion. She ordered 
392 


THE END— ALONE! 


the motor, and told the gardener to cut some grapes and 
pick some peaches to take with them. Burford had an- 
nounced his intention of taking a long tramp. The ser- 
vice in the little church had not been a soothing process 
to him. 

The trees were turning a golden brown; the leaves 
were beginning to fall. Only a few of the hedge flowers 
remained, and those the coarser kinds. All the corn had 
been gathered in, and only yellow-brown stubble re- 
mained in the fields which a few weeks before had been a 
waving mass of gold. In some meadows, a second crop 
of hay was being cut, but it did not smell so sweet as the 
first crop. That belonged to the joys of the summer 
which was past. 

The motor soon deposited them at Harberton. Mrs. 
Roberts came out hospitably to meet them. As soon as 
she looked at her, Verity was aware that she had seen 
her face before. Its earnest brightness was vaguely 
familiar to her. Probably she had seen her in the vil- 
lage, she concluded. 

“It is very good of you to come, ” said Mrs. Roberts, 
leading the way up the narrow strip of pathway. “Mrs. 
Sinclair said she would bring you some day. You know, 
your husband has been most generous to the Home. 
Early this year he sent me such a handsome check. I 
was enabled to take in two more children.’ ’ 

“Oh! I did not know.” 

It was rather annoying, but she was frequently com- 
ing across some evidence in the district of Burford’s 
kindness and generosity. Only the day before, her maid 
had been telling her how Burford had paid the passage 
money to Canada for a couple who had been unable to 
make a “do” in the village. Why wasn’t Burford 
wholly black? 

“Do you mind making it a sewing-lesson?” said Mrs. 
Roberts to the vicar’s wife. “My sister has a headache 
to-day, and I am afraid the singing might disturb her.” 

4 ‘ Of course. Is she any better? ’ ’ 

393 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

Mrs. Roberts shook her head, and the tears came in 
her eyes. 

The children, in their plain, dark blue dresses and 
untrimmed white aprons, rose up en masse and curtsied 
as the visitors entered the day-room, which was also a 
sort of school-room. Their big round eyes were turned 
upon Verity with frank admiration, for she had not 
troubled to change the dress she had worn at the church. 
They were clean to the point of shininess, and their pig- 
tails were smooth and businesslike. But they all looked 
well nourished, and it was easy to see the pride Mrs. 
Roberts took in them. 

She had rescued them from bad homes, from drunk- 
enness and worse, and to her they were very precious. 
One child of about four, who had only just been brought 
in, still showed the marks of a mother's love in the form 
of a black eye and a broken arm, now in a sling. Verity 
went up to her with a peach, and she shrank away as 
though expecting a blow. It was all rather pitiful, and 
Verity felt her heart contract as she looked at their 
shyly stolid faces. 

Presently Verity wandered forth through the open 
French window into the garden. The children were all 
bending patiently over little rows of feather-stitching. 

She crossed a small strip of lawn, and then, suddenly, 
under a big chestnut tree, she came upon a woman in a 
deep-cushioned basket-chair. The woman had been lying 
with her eyes shut, but a small dog on her lap started up 
with a bark, and the woman opened her eyes languidly. 
And as their eyes met, Verity knew she was face to 
face with a woman who had done with life. Her face 
also was familiar, and the dog — where had she seen 
such a small, yapping creature before? Then, sud- 
denly, the whole scene came before her. It was her 
first meeting with Burford, and he had been lunching 
with the woman — yes, and Mrs. Roberts — at the restau- 
rant. 

‘‘Yes," said the woman, “I remember, too. Fido 
394 


THE END— ALONE! 


behaved very badly and snapped at you. Afterward you 
became Lady Rees.” 

She looked up at the girl with a sort of remote 
curiosity, like a woman who is trying to remember some- 
thing. 

“Have you been inspecting the unwanted? Aren’t 
they plain and uninteresting? My sister thinks them all 
interesting and individual, but to me they are a bunch 
of the plainest children I ever saw. They all suggest 
bread and cheese and the village pump to me — 1 don’t 
know why. I always liked pretty things,” she spoke 
already in the past tense, “I never could stand plain 
children.” 

“You are not well?” said Verity. 

“Oh! my number is up,” said the woman, carelessly. 
“They insist on my having one last operation, but I 
know it’s quite useless. I thought there was something 
wrong for a long time, but I put off going to the doctor. 
But having lived an utterly useless and selfish life, I am 
not afraid to die. I’d rather get it over. I should hate 
to have to live on, a sort of semi-invalid, and do good 
deeds. Do sit down in that chair. I’m sure you don’t 
want to listen to fifteen droney voices, and be stared at 
by thirty admiring eyes!” 

Just then there was a sound behind her, and Mrs. 
Roberts came up with a small tea-tray. “Oh! Lady 
Rees, I thought you were with Mrs. Sinclair. Let me 
bring you a cup of tea, too. Now, Renee, darling, do 
try and eat something. ’ ’ 

“I like only unwholesome things, and I wish they 
would let me smoke. . . . Yes, bring some tea out here 
for Lady Rees. She looks tired.” 

Verity’s face had grown white as she listened to the 
two sisters. Renee! Renee! Who was this woman? 

“I — I do not know your name,” she said. “Will you 
tell me what it is?” 

“I am generally known as Renee d’Almaine,” she 
said, and there was still a note of professional pride in 

395 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


her voice. * 'Perhaps you have seen me act. I was in 
the last Stage Society play, and I was to have played for 
them this autumn, but — ” she shrugged her thin shoul- 
ders. “I only play a losing game now. Have you seen 
me act?” 

“No. . . . I — I have not seen you act. ...” 

“I looked at my face this morning, and thought what 
a fine make-up it would be. A few more blue lines 
under the eyes, and it would wring the hearts of audi- 
ences. . . . Why do you look at me so queerly? Am I 
such an awful scarecrow? I used to think myself good- 
looking. I used to affect the big-eyed, white-faced style. 
Funny I should really come to it, isn’t it? Still, it’s 
relieved me of the trouble of making up. The black 
circles round my eyes are quite natural now. . . . There 
was a wedding at Lyndhurst this morning, wasn’t there? 
We heard the bells. ’ ’ 

Verity nodded. Renee leaned back and closed her eyes 
for a moment. Then she said, without opening them, “It 
must be rather nice to be starting life with the man who 
loves you and whom you love, instead of ending it — 
alone!” 

When the identity of the woman had become clear to 
her, Verity had felt a fierce resentment and anger surge 
within her. This was the woman who had cost her her 
happiness, who had barred the gate of Paradise as 
effectually as the angel with the flaming sword. Her first 
impulse had been to rise and walk away — she was very 
young — and yet the plaintive, carefully modulated voice 
— still with its little affectations — held her to her chair. 
She had often thought of her with hate and detestation, 
with bitter rage and contempt, and, now she was opposite 
to her, something had dammed the flood-gates of her 
wrath. It seemed almost like brawling on the edge of 
an open grave. Then she heard herself saying, and she 
wondered why: 

“Can I do anything for you?” 

Renee opened her eyes and smiled. “No, thank you. 

396 


THE END — ALONE ! 


Don’t tell your husband I am ill. But there, I dare say 
he has forgotten me. He always hated Fido — Fve got 
her back — and all my trivialities.” 

Then her eyes met those of Verity, and there was 
more apparent in the eyes of the girl than she knew. 
The woman in the chair had learned to read faces: it was 
an invaluable aid to her. She leaned forward slightly 
and whispered, “What do you mean?” 

“I think I ought to tell you that — that I know.” 

For a moment there was silence between them, and in 
the stillness they could hear the scurrying of some dried 
leaves fluttering along the gravel path in the wind. 
There were some tall chrysanthemums at Verity’s side, 
and always afterward she associated their pungent, 
earthy smell with the picture of a woman with the call 
of death in her eyes. 

Then she heard Renee speaking. “How did you 
know? He didn’t tell you — no, of course not. Who 
could — was it my drunken husband? Yes, I see it was. 
He swore to be even with him. The low swine! What 
did he do? Did he write to you or something?” 

“He sent me an anonymous letter. ’ ’ Evidently Renee 
had not known about the citation. Its sole motive had 
been revenge on Burford. 

“That is the sort of thing he would do. He is a 
loathsome, crawling reptile. . . . Lady Rees, may I say 
something to you? I don’t know what the letter told 
you, and I hope you treated Bur — Sir Burford ’s affair 
with me with the contempt it deserved, but my husband 
is incapable of telling the truth. Any statements he 
made you may know were false. ’ ’ 

“But — you have acknowledged ” 

“That he passed a few idle hours with me? Yes, but 
that’s all. He never pretended to care two straws about 
me, and if I had not— oh! we might as well speak plainly 
— if I had not been very insistent in my demands for his 
society, he would never have come near me. He never 
pretended, but he did more for me than the men who 

397 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 

did. . . . It’s no excuse, of course, but it isn’t easy for 
a woman to earn a decent living when she is left penni- 
less by her husband. And as I have already told you, I 
hate bread and cheese and pump water. But I knew all 
the time he never cared for me half as much as he did 
for — for his favorite hunter. I wanted him to make love 
to me, and he was too lazy to say ‘no.’ That’s what it 
amounted to. . . . You need never remember me. He 
never will. I never even touched the fringe of his 
life.” She looked intently at the girl opposite her. 
“You may take my word for it; I know a good deal 
about men. I wonder that you sit there and listen to me. 
But I saw you once or twice in public places of amuse- 
ment, before your marriage with Burford, and — this 
sounds rather melodramatic, doesn’t it? — you gave me 
the worst moments of my life. I saw then how a man 
might love and respect a woman. I saw a man who had 
given a woman everything, and, even though he might in 
the future pass another idle hour with a woman — it is 
possible for men to do these things, even the nicest of 
them — he would never have anything of any importance 
to give her. You are only a young girl, you couldn’t be 
expected to realize such things, but I know what a little 
such a woman as myself means to a man.” Her voice 
had grown husky and weak. “Now, let me finish. I 
am sorry you knew about me, because I can see it has 
troubled you. I had not seen your husband in any way 
that you might object to for more than a year before 
your marriage. He came to my flat at my special re- 
quest a short time after that lunch at the restaurant; and 
when my husband unexpectedly came in, and tried to as- 
sault me in his drunken anger, Burford protected me and 
threw him out of the flat. Since then I have never 
spoken to your husband. Believe me, Lady Rees, women 
like myself don’t count in a man’s life. You will never 
see me again — I shall probably end my disgraceful career 
in a few weeks’ time, just as in a goody-goody storybook 
— but don’t let a thought of me spoil your happiness. 

398 


THE END— ALONE! 

Men are different from women. I have almost forgotten 
what it is to be shocked at such things — such is the force 
of habit. I only acquired the habit a few years ago, and 
men are brought up to it from childhood. I sha’n’t, like 
the stage villainess, ask you to forgive me. I didn’t 
know of your existence, and I was only earning my living 
in my own way. But because I have seen the worst of 
men, I also realize the best, which is kept for such as 
you. I — I mustn’t talk any more; it will distress my 
sister, and I hear her coming with the tea for you. . . . 
Don’t show your repugnance for me, please, before her. 
She thinks I have earned a poor but honorable living. I 
shouldn’t like her to know. . . . Here, Fido, eat this 
cake quickly, and save me a scolding— I still like com- 
fort, you see!” 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


THE SCHOOL OF LOVE 

Mrs. Sinclair found her companion very quiet on 
the homeward drive, but she did not press her to talk. 
She made an excellent companion, and her quick percep- 
tions seldom failed to answer to another’s mood. But it 
never occurred to her to connect Renee d’Almaine with 
the woman in Verity’s story, for no names had been men- 
tioned. 

The car stopped at the vicarage to deposit Mrs. Sin- 
clair, and the sight of Bianca, the eldest girl, peeping 
out of the window, recalled to Verity’s mind a promise 
she had made her respecting a doll with real eyelashes. 
This doll was at the moment reposing in her bedroom at 
the Hall. 

“Oh! have you brought it?” cried Bianca, waving a 
brown arm from the window. 

“No, dear, but I’ll fetch it for you, if you like. . . . 
Yes, now, at once.” 

Her mother protested. “Oh! any time will do, Lady 
Rees. You are tired. She had no business to ask you 
for it.” 

But Verity smiled, and insisted on fetching it. She 
knew the impatience of childhood. “I shall be back in 
a few minutes, Bianca,” she called. 

When the car slowed up in front of the Hall, Verity 
was rather relieved to see no signs of Burford. Her 
thoughts were in a chaos, and she felt that she could 
adjust them better if Burford were not around. But 
first she must redeem her promise to Bianca. 

400 


THE SCHOOL OP LOVE 


In the corridor she met her maid, who thought she had 
come in to dress. 

“I sha'n't want you yet,” said Verity. ‘Til ring for 
you when I am ready. ' ' 

“Very good, my lady.” 

She went into her room and quickly fetched the doll. 
Afterward she remembered that she did not meet any 
one on descending, not even the footman in the hall. 
The motor had gone — she had forgotten to tell the chauf- 
feur to wait — and rather ruefully she found that she 
would have to walk down to the vicarage, if Bianca was 
to have her doll that day. But she hated to disappoint 
a child; so, tucking the doll under her arm, she set forth 
briskly through the grounds, taking the short cut across 
the fields to the village. 

Once more the festival of the bath-tub was in 
progress, and Mrs. Sinclair was busy. Bianca seized on 
the eyelashed doll with passionate joy. Judy was splash- 
ing about in the water, a winsome, cuddlesome piece of 
babyhood. 

Just as she had splashed a big squirt of soapy water 
in her mothers eye, the housemaid appeared in the door 
with a frightened face. “Oh! mum, the cook has upset 
some boiling jam all down herself, and ”. 

Judy was half out of the water, not yet dry. “Good 
gracious! Jane, can you take Judy?” 

“I'll take her,” said Verity, holding out her arms. 

“But your frock ?” 

“It doesn't matter, does it, babykins?” 

Judy was of opinion that it didn't incommode her, 
and joyfully threw herself into Verity’s arms. Mrs. 
Sinclair and the housemaid departed kitchenward. 

All healthy, well-cared-for babies are sweet, but Judy 
was a particularly engaging morsel, with the coaxing 
ways of a kitten. And she proceeded to conquer this 
pretty young woman in the pretty pink gown. Her baby 
skin was like velvet, and she smelt deliciously fragrant, 
like a young wood violet. 

27 


401 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


* ‘Goo-goo / 9 she gurgled, ramming her soft brown 
head into Verity’s neck. 

Verity tried to finish drying her, but Judy was en- 
gaged in pressing soft kisses all over Verity’s face. She 
intimated that the hat was in the way, and Verity meekly 
removed it. Then Judy dug her plump fingers in the 
golden-brown hair, with more goo-gooing. 

Something seemed to be tugging at Verity’s very 
heartstrings. The warm, soft plumpness of the baby, 
pressing against her breast, felt like a physical pain, so 
that she could hardly breathe. The day had been full of 
emotion, and she felt less sure of herself than usual. 
The baby crowed with happiness as the hair became un- 
loosened. Another sturdy tug and the wavy hair, with 
most of the hairpins, began to come down on her shoul- 
ders. 

“Judy, darling — what are you doing — you’re pulling 
down my hair!” 

“Yeth — me like it,” chuckled Judy, immensely 
pleased with herself, diving after another curl. 

With the touch of the fat little fingers and the loos- 
ening of the hair, something seemed to give way, also, in 
Verity’s heart. She had tried to harden it, she had not 
meant to make any sacrifices for love, but the clutch of 
Judy’s fingers seemed to tell her she was wrong. Love 
was waiting for her there at the Hall, if she would only 
sink her pride and take it; and Judy, sweet, dimpled 
Judy — Judy was only incarnate love. She knew Burford 
was miserably unhappy, she was miserably unhappy her- 
self. Why things seemed different, after seeing the 
dying woman that afternoon, she could not tell. It was 
all the same; and yet, in some curious, unaccountable 
fashion, the thought of Renee d’Almaine seemed to have 
lost its sting. 

The baby suddenly ducked its head and looked into 
her face. “Is I ’geeable?” she said, having been told 
once to make herself agreeable to visitors. 

Verity began to laugh, and then she began to cry. 

402 


THE SCHOOL OF LOVE 


“Don’t ky,” said Judy, anxiously. “Me love ’oo.” 
The fat, pink arms held her neck so tightly that Verity 
was nearly strangled. 

When Mrs. Sinclair came in quietly a few minutes 
later, she found a small, distressed baby trying to con- 
sole a weeping woman. She looked in, unobserved, for a 
moment, then she stole away again. The Reverend 
Arthur, who was adding up the Coal and Clothing Club 
accounts, presently found a pair of arms round his neck, 
and a kiss dropped on his rapidly thinning hair. 

“Any particular reason, wife?” he said, with his 
finger on an item chronicling the purchase of red flannel. 

“I’m feeling glad, and I wanted to share it with 
you. . . . It’s all right now, or it will be soon.” 

“Oh!” said the vicar, a little bewildered. “I was 
afraid something had happened just now. I heard a 
scream in the kitchen ” 

“It isn’t that, although I’ve got to finish cooking the 
dinner. I haven’t time to tell you what it is, only I’m 
sure it’s all right. Do you know, Arthur, if I were an 
all-powerful Providence sitting up aloft, I should make 
so many more things come right. Providence is like 
Baal, fast asleep most of the time, I think.” 

“It only seems so,” said her husband, relinquishing 
his hold on the red flannel. “Oftentimes things come 
right ’ ’ 

“Oh! I know what you’re going to say. They come 
right in ways we don’t know of, and often the ways we 
want things to come right aren’t the best ways. Yes, 
but I like the old-fashioned novelist’s way of ‘they lived 
happily ever afterward.’ ” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about ” 

“No, dear, I know. And she won’t be able to find 
Judy’s night-gown, I’m sure, so I must run upstairs.” 
Half way to the door she stopped and sniffed in a most 
practical manner. “What a smell of burning! it smells 
like a wood fire in the garden.” 

She went upstairs to Verity and the babies. She 
403 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


sang rather lustily as she went, but when she entered 
the room she found Verity pinning up her hair before 
the glass — her eyelids very pink and her lips a little 
tremulous — and Judy, tied up in the bath towel, sprawl- 
ing on the floor. 

“She pulled my hair down, and I can’t find her 
nightie,” said Verity, all in one breath. 

Mrs. Sinclair sniffed again. “It’s coming in at the 
windows. Don’t you notice a smell of burning?” 

With a strand of red-brown hair twirled round her 
two forefingers, Verity stopped and sniffed, also. “Yes — 
maybe some one’s lit a bonfire. . . . Mrs. Sinclair, may 
I steal Judy?” 

“No, you may not. Have a Judy of your own. 
There’s a charming nursery up at the Hall.” 

This time Verity only laughed, and finished sticking 
in the last hairpin. “I shall be dreadfully late for din- 
ner. I must hurry.” 

Then they heard the sound of shouting in the road 
and running feet. Some commotion was going on out- 
side. Mrs. Sinclair threw up the window, and the smell 
of burning was stronger than ever. A boy flew past be- 
fore she could call to him, but an elderly laborer, hasten- 
ing with much difficulty, answered her inquiry. 

‘ ‘They say t’Hall be afire, mum. I be goin’ up to see. ’ ’ 

The Hall on fire! The two women looked at one an- 
other with affrighted eyes. Could it be possible? For a 
moment they could not believe it. Then more shouts, 
and hurrying footsteps outside, made them both move 
simultaneously to the door. 

“Arthur! Arthur!” called Mrs. Sinclair, but the Rev- 
erend Arthur was already picking up his hat from the oak 
settle in the hall. As soon as he saw Verity he stopped 
them. 

“Lola, find some thick cloak for Lady Rees. If a 
spark fell on that flimsy dress — ” Mrs. Sinclair darted 
to the back of the hall, and in a minute had enveloped 
Verity in a white blanket-coat. 

404 


THE SCHOOL OF LOVE 


“Just as well to be prepared for the worst,* * said 
Mr. Sinclair, “although it may only be the stables, or 
something of little moment.* ’ 

It was rapidly growing dark, and the air seemed full 
of smoke. It was blowing in their direction, and it was 
at once amply evident that it was no bonfire. 

“Where is the nearest fire-station?* * gasped Verity, 
as she hurried along, holding up the white coat, for it 
was much too long for her. 

“The engines come from Railesbury.** 

“But that*s miles — why, it may burn to the ground 
before the brigade could get here.** 

“No, no — it doesn’t take so very long. But I*ve often 
said it*s too far away, with the Hall so full of valuable 
things. Have the servants been instructed in fire drill?** 
Verity confessed she did not know; she had never 
tried to take a grip on things. She had pretended that 
the Hall was not her home, merely a sort of hotel. Now, 
now that it was burning, she knew that in her heart of 
hearts it had been her home since she first came down as 
a visitor, that she had grown to love passionately its 
gray old walls and all. its treasures. And if she had 
grown to love it, if she felt as though she had heard that 
a dearly loved friend were in danger of death, what must 
the man feel to whom it belonged, who had been brought 
up within its walls? She caught hold of Lola Sinclair’s 
hand, and began to run. She must get to the Hall 
quickly; she must be there to comfort Burford. All 
thought of their estrangement had been swept away. 
She had known an hour ago that she had never ceased to 
love him, she had acknowledged to herself that she could 
never be any other man’s wife nor the mother of any 
other man’s children; and now, like any woman from the 
lowest to the highest, from queen to slum woman, she 
wanted to comfort him in his trouble, she wanted to slip 
her hand in his and say, “I, your wife, am here.” 

Mrs. Sinclair answered her urging, and they both 
sped quickly up the long avenue, which was now filled 

405 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


with scurrying dark figures, all bewailing and moaning 
and full of vague suggestions. But although it was 
dark, there was an ominous red glow that gave an 
uncanny effect to the dark figures running between the 
dark lines of trees. In a minute they would be at the 
bend of the road, and the house would be visible. They 
heard mutters of “Why ever don’t the fire enjin come? 
There’s plenty of water in the lake.” 

On they rushed, Verity stumbling and almost falling 
over the white coat, but the firm hand of the other 
woman kept her up. 

“The fire brigade has been sent for?” called out Mr. 
Sinclair to a man he recognized. 

“Yes, sir, but her ain’t come yet, and they do say 
she’s gone out to Longshaw to a burning barn, so she be 
well on t’other side. I be going to get some more hose, 
but ’tis burning awful fierce.” 

They had arrived at the corner, turned it — then a cry 
of pain burst from all three. The west wing of the hall 
was burning fiercely, and a heavy volume of smoke was 
belching forth with a wild and weird effect. The west 
wing had practically been given over to Verity, and she 
saw instantly that it was her suite of rooms that was 
alight. 

“Good heavens!” muttered Arthur Sinclair, appalled 
by the sight, “if the fire brigade doesn’t come soon ” 

“I must find Burford,” panted Verity, her big eyes 
wide with pain. “I must find Burford at once.” 

They ran on to where the crowd of villagers stood in 
the open spaces of lawn before the terrace. And as they 
came nearer, they saw that all eyes were fixed on the 
burning portion of the building, and that a sort of 
frightened hush had fallen on the people. 

They came up beside a woman who was rocking her- 
self to and fro, and crying, “Oh! save him — save ’em 
both — oh, God! why don’t the firemen come?” 

“ ’Twas madness,” said another voice. “They’ll both 
be burned to death. ’ ’ 


406 


THE SCHOOL OF LOVE 


Verity clutched her by the arm. It was the lodge- 
keeper’s wife. “Mrs. Thomson, tell me, where is my 
husband?’’ 

The woman turned, stared, and then gave a shriek. 
“My God! here she is! Where did you — how — ?” The 
woman’s face was deathly white in the red glare. 

“Where’s my husband?’’ repeated Verity, hardly 
noticing the woman’s astonishment in the urgency of her 
quest. 

“He’s in there — ’ ’ She pointed with unsteady fingers 
at the burning building. “He’s gone in for you. They 
said you was in your bedroom, and the fire started there!” 

Sinclair caught hold of her, but instantly she had 
recovered herself. “I must go to him — I must find him 
— let me go — let me go ” 

She struggled frantically like a wild thing, but the 
vicar held her fast. She was a little woman, but she 
fought as only a frail woman can fight for the man she 
loves. The word was rapidly passed from mouth to 
mouth that Lady Rees was there, unhurt, in their midst, 
and the whole crowd surged dangerously forward, as 
though it would recall the man who was risking his 
life for the sake of a woman who had never been in any 
danger. 

Presently Verity’s maid rushed up to her, the tears 
streaming down her face, wringing her hands helplessly. 

“Oh! my lady, I thought you were in your rooms. 
... I saw you go in, and you said you would ring. . . . 
It was well alight before we discovered it . . . and when 

Sir Burford came in I said— I said you must be there— 
Oh, what shall I do!” 

Sinclair looked round hurriedly, and spied a man who 
lived on one of Burford ’s largest farms. In a few words 
he put Verity in his charge. “Lady Rees, promise me 
not to stir from here. I am going up to the front, and 
if anything can be done, I’ll do it. You know that, 
don’t you? But you can’t do anything. You mustn’t 
endanger your life.” 


407 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


“I don’t want it if Burford is — is ” 

"‘We’ll get him out. He isn’t going to be. Now 
stop here with Mr. Scott and I’ll come back to you.” 

Lola Sinclair laid her hand quickly on her husband’s 
arm, but his eyes spoke to hers, and it lost its detaining 
pressure. Then he disappeared among the crowd. 

He found it was only too true that Burford was in 
the burning building. No one had seen Verity go down 
to the vicarage with the doll, and they had all concluded 
that she was in her room, especially as the fire seemed to 
have originated there. The old woodwork was an easy 
prey to the fire; they could hear it crackling merrily. 
Once a fire starts in such an old mansion as Lyndhurst 
Hall, there is very little hope of saving it; and the hose 
that had been rigged up from the lake to the house was 
miserably inadequate. 

Arthur Sinclair for a moment thought of plunging in 
after Burford, for it was probable that he had been over- 
come by the smoke, as the men told him that they had not 
seen any sign of him for some time; then, reluctantly, 
he abandoned the idea. It was sheer madness to go into 
that burning pile. The flames had just begun to show 
at the window of the picture gallery, which was not far 
from Verity’s rooms. 

Then there was a shout of hope. The fire engines 
were tearing madly up the avenue, with a clatter and a 
jingle, and all the paraphernalia used in the battle with 
the flames. Was it too late? 

Verity made no effort to get away from her body- 
guard. She stood as if turned to stone, staring, staring 
at the burning pile. The clatter and the excitement of 
the fire engine’s arrival moved her but little. In her 
own mind she was convinced it was too late, that every- 
thing was too late. She had tried to pretend that she 
did not want Burford as a husband, and — the miserable 
pretence had come true. She had played with her happi- 
ness, and fate had swept it away. 

Suddenly a cry went up from the watching crowd. 

408 


THE SCHOOL OF LOVE 


The brigade was in readiness to play on the building, 
but was that all? Verity’s eyes were so tired and in- 
flamed from the staring and the heat that for a few 
moments she could see nothing new. 

“Look! Look! there, just under the roof!” 

Was there somebody fighting with the small window 
to the right of the gallery? What window could it be? 
Verity thought hard for a moment. It was the window 
of the Secret Chamber. Ah! She made a step forward, 
holding out her useless arms, but strong, kindly hands 
pulled her back. 

“They’re going to put up the fire escape,” cried Mrs. 
Sinclair, putting her arms round the little wife, and 
holding her close. “See— look— yes, I am sure it is he.” 

The flames burnt so fiercely around the window that 
it seemed barely possible that it could be a living man. 
Verity knew what he had done. He had got through the 
secret door in the gallery. If the firemen were quick 
the flames could be kept off for a little while. Oh! why 
were they so long in getting up the ladder? Verity 
pinched Mrs. Sinclair’s arms black and blue in her ex- 
citement, but at the moment neither woman noticed it. 

Then there was a mysterious cessation of activities. 
Why didn’t they mount the ladder? Would they let her 
husband die before their eyes? 

“Why — why don’t they — ” She wrung her hands 
piteously. 

“It’s a dangerous job,” muttered the farmer beside 
her. “They’re asking for a man that hasn’t got a fam- 
ily. The parson wants to go, but ” 

But now a fireman was mounting the ladder. He 
scaled up the rungs deftly and quickly, getting nearer 
and nearer to the little window every instant. The 
crowd held its breath and not a sound was heard, nothing 
save the crackle, crackle of the burning wood and the 
swish of the hose. 

The glare was awful and the smoke stung the eyes. 
Verity felt as if her very heart were on that long, thin 

409 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


ladder. The fireman was nearly at the top. Would the 
heat be too much for him? The window was small, too. 
Could Bur ford be got out? 

Just as the fireman’s head was on a level with the 
window-frame the figure at the window disappeared. A 
cry of disappointment went up from the crowd. Was it 
too late? But the fireman was hacking at the window 
frame. Then he, too, disappeared. 

The moments of suspense that followed seemed to 
Verity like years. She had never imagined that any 
agony could be so awful as that waiting. And all the 
time something kept beating like a hammer in her head, 
to the tune of “Too late! Too late!” She closed her 
eyes. She could look no more. 

But the magnetism of a crowd is wonderful. She 
knew by the wave that passed through her that hope was 
riding high again. 

“He’s got him — he’s unconscious — oh! however will 
they get down that ladder ! ’ ’ 

Then another figure that would no longer be denied 
was seen mounting the ladder to the other’s assistance. 
He had on a fireman’s helmet, but his long, tightly but- 
toned coat was not that of a fireman. It was the Rever- 
end Arthur’s long, spare frame that scaled the ladder to 
the other’s assistance. 

“’Tis the parson— the roof’ll fall in in a minute— the 
fireman’s nearly done — Sir Burford’s heavy.” Verity 
caught her breath, as the fireman, very slowly descend- 
ing, nearly slipped once with his burden. But the long, 
black figure coming up was very near. They knew he 
must be shouting encouragement, but they could not 
hear. 

Verity saw Lola Sinclair’s white lips moving, and she 
knew that she was sending up a prayer for the three men 
on the ladder. The flames were almost licking them, 
and every now and then the wind blew the smoke across 
them, so that they were all three temporarily lost to 
view. 


410 


THE SCHOOL OF LOVE 


“Can they — can they?” whispered Verity. 

“God — God's too good to let them — oh!” — for the 
ladder had shifted a little, and a piece of the roof had 
fallen in. 

But the black figure had reached the fireman, and 
Burford’s unconscious body had been shifted down partly 
over his shoulders. It looked almost like a corpse that 
they were carrying. 

“He can’t be dead?” gasped Verity. “Say he can’t 
be dead!” 

“No — smoke — overcome — strong man — that’s it — now 
they’re coming — give them a shout, boys, to encourage 
them— Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” The farmer’s voice 
was unsteady and hoarse. 

The shout went up, sharp-edged with feeling and 
emotion, and the figures steadily but slowly descended, 
though how they stood the heat and the smoke was a 
marvel. If only the ladder would hold a little longer — if 
the roof did not fall in 

Crash! Crash! Volumes of smoke and sparks flew up 
to the sky. When they cleared away the crowd saw that 
the roof of the west wing had gone! The ladder had 
disappeared with it. Where were the three men? 

They had all three fallen together, and rolled down 
the grass of the terrace. Dozens of eager forms rushed 
forward to pick them up, in spite of danger from the 
tottering walls and the falling beams. 

The two women sped quickly over the grass, their 
faces so blackened by the smoke as to be almost unrecog- 
nizable. But when they got near to the open space where 
they had laid the three men, compassionate hands stopped 
their further progress. They must wait for the doctor s 
report before they could go any nearer. Restoratives 
were being applied by able hands. A rapid examina- 
tion was being made. The two wives could do nothing 
for their men. The hardest part was theirs now— to 
wait! 

The fireman was the first to recover. He had only 
411 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


been stunned by the fall, and seemed to have miracu- 
lously escaped injury. 

“The parson has got off with a broken arm,” the 
local practitioner came over to say — he was assisting his 
senior from Harberton — “Now, Mrs. Sinclair, don’t you 
go and faint. Can’t take care of any more patients. . . . 
Is that Lady Rees? Your husband’s the worst, but he’s 
showing signs of coming round now. I never thought he 
could get out of the building alive. It was nothing short 
of a miracle. And to think that you were outside all the 
time! Well! Well!” 

Mrs. Sinclair began to laugh, although the laughter 
was a little hysterical. The doctor had an enormous 
black smudge down his nose, and she became aware for 
the first time what a villainous-looking crew they all 
were. 

“Let me go to Arthur,” she said, “he’ll want me.” 

She said it with the assurance that ten happy years 
of matrimony can give. It struck Verity sharply in the 
face. Would Burfordwant her? She had been thinking 
all the time of what she wanted, what she was willing to 
give, but did Burford still want her? 

Then she heard the doctor speaking. “Sir Burford 
may have recovered consciousness now. Shall we go 
across and see? We mustn’t be too hasty — though joy 
never kills, that’s my experience — for no doubt he gave 
up the search in despair. Your husband’s a brave man, 
Lady Rees. Very few men would have the pluck to enter 
that building, burning fiercely as it was.” 

Yes, Verity knew all that. But she could not speak. 
Her heart was bursting. Was it — was it even now too 
late? 

Burford was coming to his senses with reluctance. 
He groaned as though he were unwilling to come back to 
life. Some one was trying to raise him a little, and 
Verity, motioning the man aside with swift jealousy, 
slipped behind Burford ’s head and took his place. She 
knelt on the ground and pillowed his head against her 

412 


THE SCHOOL OF LOVE 


breast. Then she saw that there was blood all over his 
head and hands. The doctor saw her look of horror and 
reassured her. 

“It’s the broken glass of the window. It's nothing 
serious.” 

Her scrap of a handkerchief was useless to wipe away 
the stains from the wounds. The blood flowed persist- 
ently, and dripped on to the soft pink ninon, so that it 
was warm on her neck. But she would not let any one 
else support him. He was heavy, but he was in her 
arms. She was too jealous to let any one else have that 
happiness. 

“He’s coming round now . . . don’t let him see you, 
Lady Rees. . . . Keep back. . . . That’s right! Drink 
some of this, Sir Burford. . . . Hold his head a little 
higher. . . . that’s better. ...” 

His eyelids opened very slowly, very heavily. From 
her position above him, Verity breathlessly watched the 
eyelashes curl upward. There was a little trickle of 
blood running down his blackened, scorched face, and she 
saw that it annoyed him. The little scrap of a handker- 
chief came up from the hand under his shoulder and 
wiped it away. There was a faint perfume about the 
handkerchief, a very delicate sachet powder that she 
used. His nostrils dilated a little, and he seemed to 
come back to full consciousness. 

“Verity!” he breathed, with a quickening of his 
whole body. Then he groaned, and his eyelids shut again. 
“I couldn’t find her,” he muttered. Verity could obey 
the doctor’s injunction no longer. 

She turned his head a little so that one side of his 
face lay against her breast, as a mother nurses her child. 

“My darling, Verity is here. She wasn’t in her 
room. She is here holding you in her arms.” 

“Alive?” 

“Yes — yes,” she sobbed. “Oh! doctor — doctor!” 

“He’s fainted again. It’s all right— don’t blame 
yourself. You’re worn out. Let’s get him on the 

413 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


stretcher, and take him down to the lodge. . . . And 
your husband— you’ll want him home, Mrs. Sinclair.” 

“Take them both to the vicarage. It’s only a step 
farther than the lodge.” 

“They’re getting the fire under,” said a man who had 
just come up for news of the sufferers. They’re check- 
ing it now. It looks as if they’ll be able to save the rest 
of the house. I wonder how it happened. They think 
it started in your room, my lady.” 

“Do they?” said Verity, a little dazed. “But how?” 
Then she gave a little start. “Oh! could it have been 
that! Oh! if it was my fault!” 

“Why, dear, what did you do?” said Lola, wiping 
away her own tears of happiness, and making horrible 
smears on her face. 

“I’ve just remembered. I went to that big old closet 
in my room; it goes down two steps, and it was dark. 
The doll was there. I lit a candle and then I put it on 
my dressing-table and I can’t— can’t remember blowing 
it out. ’ ’ 

“Ah! and the wind caught it and blew it on the cur- 
tains. Most likely.” 

“I am the culprit! I’ve burned down Burford’s 
home!” cried Verity, tragically. “He’ll never forgive 
me now. ’ ’ 

“It’s only the west wing,” said Mr. Sinclair, leading 
her along in the wake of the stretchers. Then she 
smiled. “Burford has certainly been through fire for 
you, my child. You can most comfortably do a bit of 
forgiving on each side now.” 

“I’ve nothing to forgive, ” sobbed Verity, appalled at 
the mischief her carelessness had wrought, “nothing. 
Will he ever forgive me ? ” 

When, a little later, Verity was told she might go 
into the vicarage’s spare bedroom, where a man with a 
bandaged head and hands, clean but very pale, his hair 
almost singed off his head, held out his arms to her, she 
414 


THE SCHOOL OF LOVE 

would not let him take her to his heart until she had 
confessed all. 

“I’m afraid I did it, dear. And you loved Lynd- 
hurst so!” 

“Not a hundredth part as much as I love you,” 
smiled her husband. “If you don't let me kiss you this 
minute, I shall get off the bed, and the doctor made me 
promise not to move — Oh, my dearest!” 

After an eloquent silence, Verity wanted to confess 
all her other misdeeds, but Burford would have none of it. 

“You couldn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart. You 
were always perfect in my eyes. If I had only been a 
little nearer perfection ” 

“But why should I have expected perfection?” said 
his wife, with her cheek against his. “What a horrid, 
conceited, intolerant little wretch I was! Why should I 
secure the perfect man and have him for my husband?” 

“Well, although it may endanger our relations, I 
ought to warn you again that I shall never be half good 
enough for you. But they say love is an education, 
don’t they? Well, love — through you — has taught me 
some things that I never thought I should learn. I never 
knew those things existed, or I wouldn’t— You under- 
stand, my wife?” 

The soft cheek pressed closer against his scorched 
one. The warmth of her breath was on his face. 

“And I’ve learned, too, my husband.” 

No more words were needed between them. The lit- 
tle guest-room, with its pretty chintzes and white walls 
patterned with sprawling roses, was full of the great 
happiness and peace which comes from understanding. 
For the finest love below is that which through suffering 
has learned to comprehend the frailties and weaknesses 
of those men and women who, for the disobedience of 
Adam and Eve, were turned out of Paradise. Love on 
earth is no paradise, though the poets would have us 
think so. Love is a rose with a thorn, and the thorn 
makes it human and satisfying. Without the thorn it 

415 


THE ROSE WITH A THORN 


would be insipid perfection, and we should soon tire of 
it and find its sweetness cloying. 

The thorn will always be there to prick our eager 
fingers, and we shall always resent it. Human creatures 
to the end of all time will continue to scratch and tear 
themselves upon it, but the blood which flows will heal 
their hearts if they will let it. 

Love — the rose with a thorn — the rose which every 
man and woman desires! 


(i) 


The End. 














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